when i came back
a few weeks after i broke up with you.

i came back.

we both had to come back home
and we were faced with the reality

that we live in the same building
and we work with the same people


you saw my new nose ring.

I saw your new sweaters.
You were so handsome.

I don't think you will ever really understand
how good you looked.

too good.


you looked too good for me.
you,

           a giant
                            with hands more beautiful than the sea

and the most beautiful smile
       i have ever seen.


you were too good to be true.

or
had i built you up in my head?

what was it that made me end things?


there have been so many mornings where I ask myself that question
and I just can't

remember

I don’t know where I’m going
but I want to take you with me.

I will pack you in my suitcase,
next to the pants I’ll never wear,
and pull you out on rainy days
when I am missing home.

I will shower you clean with kisses
and iron away your creases
with my finger tips.
When I tuck you into bed
my body will be your blanket.

And while you sleep,
I will cradle my head against your chest,
a pillow I have never slept upon,

and count the number of heartbeats it takes
to realize that this is all just

wishful thinking.

One day, I asked a chef
how he made his food taste
so delicious

He said to me
"It's simple.  I carefully
mix spices with meats,
fruits, and vegetables,
then I combine them
in a particular order,
during which I apply
heat at certain times
and temperatures."

I was awestruck.

Then I asked a painter
how she created such
beautfiful images

She said to me
"It's simple.  I mix certain
colors together, then I place
those colors on specific spots
on the canvas in a particular
order using a various number
of stroke techniques."

I was amazed

Finally, I asked a writer
how he wrote such beautiful
and inspiring lines

He paused and looked far off
into the distance, contemplating
what wise advice to impart to me



Then he took a hit off his ****

"I dunno, I guess I just
write, like, how I feel
and stuff..."

"Totally", I replied, as I bit into a ham sandwich

some mornings are worse than others.

some days, i wake up
my lips chapped, nose running
my eyes bloodshot and red,
i stare at the blue paint on the walls
and the blue sheets on my bed

and it's impossible
to pick my tired head off the pillow

it's weighed down from dreams about you
and nightmares
where you're so angry that you grab me by my hair and throw me out of the moving car

my head is too heavy
to get out of bed


pull the covers over me
and cry
cry


cry


         cry until it goes away


sleeping next to you used to bring me comfort; now the blankets can't even keep me warm.

This poem is reserved
for the love of my life
Its lines are only
placeholders
templates
for what is to come

There is no meaning right now
so don't go and search for it
These are cold, emotionless words
ready to be replaced with fire
when the time is right

This stanza will be filled at a later date
This line will be about her laugh
This line will be about the look she gives me (you know the one)
This line will be about the spark in her eyes
This line...mmm...will be none of your **** business.
It's a private moment
It's between her and I
The one with the reservation
to my heart

One day this poem will mean something
One day these lines won't be empty
Someday

But not today

I've been told
what the future holds

full of nightmare,
fear and despair,
hatred and terror,
and destruction's reign

the gates of hell opened
and the sky rained fire,
the seas became red as blood,
and the righteous fall before the wicked,
the creations trembled before the burning hell

War will rise
between good and evil,
between angels and demons
the Heavens fury shall strike the earth
mortals vanished
in a blink of an eye

the end is coming
(salvation awaits)

Well now, I used to teach.
I mean, I still do, but it's only for their benefit now, isn't it?
It's like the doctors and the greengrocers
and the streetsweepers and librarians,
still going through the motions
while they take recordings and what have you.
I guess we should be glad
that they're interested in the way we lived,
you know,
before they arrived.
But my kids, you know,
they're all actors.
They might learn the odd piece
of arcane knowledge
but I can tell they know
they don't need it.

No, no, I'm no rebel
I don't want any trouble.
Things are better since they arrived,
of course they are.
I mean, their technology -
we couldn't have come up with that
in a million years.
And they're very polite.
I have a colleague who says
this is because they feel guilty about their success,
but I don't know about that.
Things were bad for a while,
but I guess maybe that was our fault.
We didn't know how to react.
We adjusted poorly.
It's hard to accept that you're, you know,
obsolete.

Even me, you know.
For a while there I was,
well,
I was drinking a little too much.
It was hard, seeing the school destroyed.
They've done a good job
with the facsimile though.
even smells the same.

Yup,
can't complain.
Can't complain.

Briefly entranced
by a swish of hips
as they sashay past a doorman,
he takes a breath, approaches
and asks to get through.

"Sorry sir," the tall man says,
"your purchasing record suggests
"that you dislike jazz.
"I think you'd better move along."

Of course, of course,
what was he thinking?
A narrow escape, that.
And on home through the empty streets he goes,
Untroubled by the wide wild sounds,
the horns and pianos,
the reckless freeform blast and chatter
that might ruthlessly have smashed through
his carefully constructed identity.

Safe at home,
his television allows him to watch
a comedy he has seen thirteen times before
and so must really love.