I'm not a poet
of my time just because
I go on long walks.
I don't see anything or hear anything that
a real poet would,
I just sing to myself.
Most often singing softer than the thud of my footsteps.

You're a teenage boy,
She tells me,
You're just having puberty mood swings,
She tells me,
If you do decide to die write me a note,
I stop.

Poe--Whitman--
how I cradle your aesthetic!
I sing my body in electrical wires
& hurry the darkness in,
as it is late.
Ms Dickinson,
your fly is now upon my window,
perhaps teasing me at the
sound of my pleas.
Where are you?
Ginsberg you're not talking
to me about god & beauty & life;
Neither shall the
romantic maniacs, nor any
prissy royalty who loved living
their wealth.
Mr. Frost I choose life at the dead end!
Mr. Faulkner I choose to hate you!
Mr. Bukowski I'm sorry you couldn't make it for coffee
you wouldn't have enjoyed the
waitresses anyway.
Neruda, you taught me
nothing of love--you should have--
& W.C. Williams
reading you would defeat
the purpose of trying to die, so as much as it pains me
I'll have to pass,
maybe tomorrow though.

I pick up my
phone and try to write
a real good poem, something
with substance &
all I can think about is the girl
who lives across town,
who stays in her room,
who proclaimed that she could sleep in my hugs forever,
who told me that we were going to be best friends for a long time--
& if she couldn't stand all the "other guys" then she'd marry me
at 40 years old,
who doesn't talk much anymore,
who was ***** as a child,
who cried on my shoulder--arm around mine--
and how much I love her
but can't because she's afraid
of males.
I don't think she sees how much it
kills me to know she suffers
and I'm not able to build a time machine.

night has passed
clanking and exhaling,
small talks of large projects, conundrums;
oak wood canines roam in bliss
new found love found lager
new found lover found a big stomach in the morning
and a smile on his face, not penetrating his soul.
deep and shallow, bodies of water dig going with the flow.
perhaps a bowl of cereal is in the general direction we're floating,
huzzah, brumah, and lack-lack.

I draw a blank--cheap printer paper--
Every time it rains, as if
the liquid slapping sounds; the trickling down avenue sounds,
clear my head space so I may finally hear God say something.
Whether he speaks volumes or not
his lips are moist enough to spit.

The world ended,
I ruffle my blanket to
cover
my cold feet.

A lovely
soundtrack of birds
chortle outside; never mind the mechanical
croaks & ***** howls.

I haven't seen a human
all day. The most underrated
turn-off is a mirror,
as I think to myself.

She must be distraught, on the
other side of town,
while I am loosely here
& not a text to cool me down.