i hope you walk
back into my life
and find all the dog
eared pages in that
book full of bukowski
poems, I only bought
it because I could imagine
it on your shelf.  I have to
remind myself that most
of what I liked, I liked way
before you but your water
brought it to the surface and I
realize I am so much more
like a snake than I think,
shedding skins that
belonged to you.

my throat is a forest fire,
a burning map that never leads to
'the depths of virginia'

your hands are made of water,
icy cold and haunting and
I don't know what else to say except
"please"

I sometimes think that we should have a history book
rewritten with our names, because I'll be ******* if
we are not rewarded for the way we forget about our past

I WONDER IF WHAT WE TALK ABOUT AFTER MIDNIGHT
HAS ANY IMPACT ON THE WAY YOUR HEART BEATS AND IF
IT DOES IS IT WATERED DOWN BECAUSE OF BEFORE
AND I WANT TO KNOW IF MY WORDS HAVE THE SAME
EFFECT ON YOU AS YOURS ON ME AND I WANT TO SWIM
in the James River and forget how to sway my limbs around to float

this is not a love poem
this is not an "I miss you, come back" poem
this is a confession
this is a love letter
written on the palms of my hands because I know
you'll never get over how badly they shake

maybe I'm confused or lovesick or homesick
for a home that can only be found inside of warm chests
but I needed to write this for someone, for myself

maybe my questions don't need answers,
maybe they just need to be heard.

I find the topics
upon which One chooses
to write and reflect
are, themselves, reflections
of the Mind
of the Mirror.

The travel is long and arduous
Any end of way is nowhere near
A slow witness to season’s fast rush
He treads the motion of another year.

Sometimes resting on nights dark and starry
He wonders why life needs to race in hurry
When like him by just slowing down the pace
Could be reached a piece of peace and happiness!

Men would mock him for his vast slowness
Absence of speed his lack of progress
How would they know he never grew the lust
To set himself a goal and try to reach it fast.

The more paths men travel the more they seem less
Like going round in circle coming back to same place
Forever dreaming an ascent aiming the peak’s height
Chasing a gain to attain a light at end of night!

He moves on in the way the soil patiently waits the rain
Never unhappy to be left behind never scared he might fail
Just trekking along with no end of way no destiny’s pain
In the embrace of his belief for good reason he’s a snail.

Whoever wrote "happy-ever-after"
lived inside a fairy tale.