I find you in the strangest of places
in empty streets beneath the trees
in crowded rooms full of music and strangers
and sometimes I even find your eyes catch mine or your voice say my name
I find you when you’re not there at all
in the lines of songs and the pages of books
in the caress of my pillow and the formation of my smile
But the strangest place I find you, strangest of all
is on my mind
constantly and irrevocably

I fell in love with a girl
again, at a bar
My friend said she was Czech
Hard to say
I didn't ask for her passport,
and she had nowhere to carry one
She smiled when she glanced my way
eyes glazed, speaking my language
The Czech girl, making love to a pole.

r ~ 8/9/14

Ain't no reason
or particular season
to the rhyme...
but my head is heavy-
and my heart is rotten
to the core.

There's holes in my pages
where there once were words-
the book worms got 'em
and left me empty...

I asked ***** Joe for a light,
but his flint wore out
on the road into Fallujah.
Now he's rotten to the corps-
he can't hear us anymore...
a secret, silent sentry.

r ~ 8/22/14

there are many tribes;
some, will live peaceably

It's kind of sad when you have friends who you say are your family,
and say your family is not.

It's depressing when your family does not accept you as a member,
and you never thought of yourself as one.

It's a little unsettling when you can picture your future being beautiful and bright, without seeing them ever again.

I killed a butterfly today  
then tried to write a poem  
I don’t know why I did it  
It died without a home  
It struck me as compelling  
as I recalled what my parents used to say  
be mindful of your surroundings  
a flap of butterfly wings can change a day  


I thought little of it then  
yet now I obsess as I reminisce  
if a butterfly flap can change so much  
what of the absence of it?  
Have I sealed my fate to infamy  
or paved my way to riches  
but maybe if I **** another?  
my unforeseeable fate switches  


But what’s a butterfly to me?  
it wasn’t much before  
now you expect me to believe  
it holds the key to what’s in store?  
Free will must exist  
at least as long as I believe it to  
foolish of me to think my dead butterfly  
could have some affect on you  


Yet I sit here thinking  
of thoughts I’ve never had  
a liar I would be to tell you  
that I haven’t changed a tad  
It did not have a name  
and I did not have a reason  
yet as I blankly stared down  
I felt as if I had committed treason  


So I sweep away the body  
and leave the room to clear my head  
if my hand’s never clapped  
this butterfly would not be dead  
so be wary of the change you bring  
the waves you choose to make  
that butterfly could have changed a day  
and not believing that was my mistake

There once was a poet
who was very much alive
he'd write everyday
sometimes late into the night
his poetry was his craft
a never ending ascent into madness
a read of his work
was a trip into darkness

He was fascinated by death
by how simple it was
he imagined the light being as bright
as the white of a dove
he loved rhyming tricks
how they'd guide a reader
along a waterfall of words
the more the steeper

but he wasn't famous
he wasn't beloved
this tore him apart
and led him to what?
no i didn't hear that
a modern day Van Gogh
only 25
too young for him to go

Coffee stained sweaters
swollen bit lips
mistakes that stayed forever
wounds that never healed
apologies told
relationships mended
now that I have you
I'm reminded by how it ended

I search for tones in your speech
quivers in your voice
hints in your texts
movements in your body
I can't forget how we failed
how we might make it this time
and why either is
just as likely as the other

Do I love you?
Or am I just used to you?