Go!
Find me a word.
A mono-syllabic word.
A word that is as independent
as a lone tree in a field,
the only shade around.

A word only modest,
never narcissistic,
that cannot bring pride
to the reader or writer
(as the word has the only right to the pride.)

A word that is self-specific
that cannot be mis-read
or mis-construed.
A word needing no explanation.
A word that is not an object;
neither a noun or a verb,
but always the subject.
A word so strong ,
yet always softly spoken.

A word that may float forever
when muttered aloud
that brings courage and inspiration
while you keep your feet on the ground.

When it's found,
I'd like to be that word.
Your word,
my word,
the world's word
with all of it's traits,
and known by nothing else.
That word will be me
and I will be that word,
and when I die
it should be the only word
written above my grave.

A hero
in his own consciousness
for the world that exists
only in his reveries.

A warrior
so vigilant and chivalrous
in the village
behind his eye lids.

A king
so kind yet mildly imperious
ruling all
inside his land of dreams.

A drowning member
of the proletariat class
humoring all
in the world he walks.

The poems come out of your eyes
and not your mouth,
as you write sweet lines to me
across the room;
our eyes lock
and you tell me
you are longing to know
what my voice sounds like.
what my hand may be like
locked in yours
and what my skin may feel like
under your finger tips.

As your poetry is yelling at me
from across the room
I wonder what your finger tips may taste like,
the chewed off nails
and the salty-sweet skin.
I wonder what your hair would feel like
if I ran my fingers through.
What the muscles on your neck and shoulders would feel like
being rubbed and massaged
with in the palms of my hands.
I wonder what your neck would taste like
if I were to gently kiss and lightly lap it.


Your poetry
comes out of your eyes
as you look at me
from across the room.
and then I see you pull out your notebook,
with scribbles and gibberish galore
as you write with quick
and tightly flexed arms
and I wonder
what your eyes might have to say
to the paper beneath your pen.

The words you write
for only your paper to see-
it should be shared
and I implore you:
will you share it with me?

And I sit and wonder
if I am understanding your language
or am I just a foreigner
to the country of your head?

My right hand
-the dominate hand
-the right hand; correct.
Has been the wrong hand.

I am cutting it off,
severing the nerves.
For it has failed me,and failed to be
the proletariat hand,
the hand with moxie and avidity,
leaving me with no more ideas,and I am growing myself a new one.

And though I shall be
with out mobility
for just a bit of time,
the new hand will be worth it.
New
and born with everlasting vigor at the zenith.

...For it will have:
the grip of a king
the prowess of a master artisan
and the dexterity of a seamstress.

Hitch a ride with me,
Jump on my shoulders
and lets take a journey,
between the lines
and through the amphibolies.
Down onto
that blank spot on the page
so that we can write our own stories
and make our own lyrics.

Our skin against the paper,
and the paper against our hearts;
amphibolies will wonder
and fate will be left guessing.

Natural inclinations ,
unrequited vindications,
unadorned specifications.

These all make for reservations
of forced vacations -
like a sad
and elongated
pythagorean theorem
that always equals =

                                      a bad poem.

He never did know
anything except for what he knew,
and he now knows
nothing more
than what he used to know
but has not known anything
for a very long time.