Take out my heart
and fill the hole
with a sweet ****-
take several bites
and stay through the night.

Take off my lips
and put them on your hips-

steal my finger prints
and get me in to trouble.

Pull out my teeth
and make a bite-mark necklace-
pull out my tongue
and make a broach
pinned over your left ******.

Remove my hands
and use them as wash rags
as you bathe in the tub-
take my body
and use it as a towel to dry yourself off.

Take my soul
and use it as a blanket to keep warm
as we drift off to sleep.

I am a car parked in the back alley, ready for a quick get-away.
I am an emergency exit; unlocked and with no alarm.
I am a trap door.
I am a secret safe hidden behind your favorite picture.
I am the key to those handcuffs, hidden in a secret pouch with-in your clothing.
I am the button hidden beneath the counter at banks.
I am the secret compartment in the drawer of your desk.
I am a secret under ground passage way.
I am the ace up your sleeve.
I am a dreamer that suffers from aspirations
of being the dream
that you have
which makes you smile in your sleep.
Sick with delusions, hoping that one day
I might get to be your wings.

Lover's thoughts
left adrift.
Silence rings
with no sharp stings.

Lover's limbs
tangled and weaved.
No new thoughts conceived
only joy; believed.

Lover's heads
tucked away.
Sleep 'til day,
wish to stay.

Lover's day
lead astray
by memories
and mystery.

Lover's voice
on the other end
a rush of joy
and love again.

(In the now, once again.)

Baby, I'm growing wings.
And if what you say is true,
you might just want
to do something around the same...
at least build a plane.

I don't want empty promises
or false hopes to hang onto...
I create those enough in my dreams
while plotting my made-up schemes...

You asked
If I can do that with you...
I can only think of strong answers
that are not ANYTHING but true.

Don't act like you're the one waiting
...I feel like my heart is palpating
when I think of you and the dreams
I wish were true.

Can't we please just rewind...
I now know your mistakes
and mine.

Just don't promise that we can start again
unless you're serious, this time
about letting me in.

You've changed something inside of me,
it came about as a swelling tide of intangibles
peeking just over the horizon.

A silence of the mind
vainly bracing for the impact.
The under current,
the rip tide,
will surely pull me under.

I just go,
I let it carry me
to where I need to be.

I just go,
let it wash away my sins
to be left
at the bottom of the sea.

I just go,
I give in to the everything
that I cannot see.

and I'm swept away
to another world...
hopefully you'll catch up with me.

I will write to you
as much bad poetry as I can
with out feeling
like any less of a man.

I will write
to myself
as much bad poetry as I can
to make myself smile
and still feel like a man.

I will write to you
more bad poetry
and deliver it with a kiss-
as many kisses on you that I can
with out feeling
like any less of a man.

For my man-hood
is not measured by the inch,
or by hair to skin ratio,
or by word choice,
or by other's admission.

My man-hood just simply is,
as am I,
and I will write bad poetry every single day
up to the very hour
that I die.

(not in sorrow, just in the now.)

Here I am
just broke;
spending my last amount of change
on coffee and cigarettes
in hopes of creating something
out of the nothing that I own
that will take me up
like an angel
to the life that I dream about
but don't even remember anymore
because sleep is a memory
three days distant.

I've wasted my time
on thinking of how else to waste my time
in even more hopes that the time
will bring more creation
of the anything
that I dream of
coming from anywhere.

I create dust from my skin
watching it flake off
and collect on my books
that are there to inspire
but as of late,
do nothing but taunt.

The dreams,-they haunt
all of them just memories
of love poems
inspired by my own pining
fueling that insatiable lining
in my heart
that soaks up my emotions
like a tape worm
only for the left overs;
the waste -
to dribble off of my bottom lip
and and land on a paper
who's destiny is
a crumpled death
with a burial in the trash can.

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.

The inexplicable something
that is in the air around us -

It changes rooms,
and makes colors brighter;
makes the light lighter
and gives the darkness magic.

The inexplicable something
that is made from nothing
when we are around each other,
still,
and its like a scab
that will not heal -
but quite the opposite
of an infection.

And it's something
that is not about the conversation
which involves things,
but not a thing in particular.

It's not about the touching
or the kissing
or the rubbing
and massaging.

It's about the inexplicable
something
that is made from nothing
when our bodies
and minds
sync together
in time
like rhymes.

The inexplicable something
that makes this
Not a poem at all.


The inexplicable something that never goes away
as I sit
or stand
or sleep -
it's still there.

And I would use the word "haunt"
but its more than that
and it drives me crazy.
Absolutely crazy.
When I can't figure out
why I cannot get you off my brain.
When I'm trying to write
and all I can think about
is a way to explain
this inexplicable thing.
Even though I have better things to do,
or more productive I might say,
But here I am
writing more and more words
to you
each and every day.

The two,
Divested.

                                The two divested,
                          the darkness melting away every imperfection.

every imperfection:
every stray hair
small blemish
scars
protruding bones
and fat.
Legs too skinny and hairy
to be enjoyed in the light.

                                  Love-
                       a nocturnal creature that prospers most in the dark
                                        Thriving on your pining .

The nocturnal creature known as love
enveloping the two.

Love,
and through love,
each creature-
the two and love,
all becoming a symbiote
and a parasite.

                       The darkness-
                 a creature of it's own kind.

The darkness
melting the day away
                               melting the imperfections away
the light
escaping into the moon
shifting every shadow
and enveloping the three.

The two,
         Love,
              the darkness.

The two love the darkness.

Like a lego
might make a click
when fit together
with another perfect match

or the cracking of the wood
as a *****
fits neatly with in its grain.

Or how the shoulder
makes a pop
when fit back into it's socket

My favorite noise in the world
is that
small
comfortable
grunt of approval
when your head fits neatly
into the space
between my arm
and my torso.

And our legs entwine
like a perfect
length of rope
and our bodies -
like two pieces of a puzzle
lay still
and quiet.

And our hearts
synchronize;
the rising and falling
of our chests
with each breath,
make like two gears
in a perfectly oiled watch
that keep each other going
with no hard work at all.

That noise,
that small
tiny
perfect noise
that lets me know
you are content
exactly where you are
and have no
intent
on going any where
any time soon
and that feeling
that I get
when this little piece
of blissful
knowledge
enters my brain
is better than any feeling...
any drug
any rest
any stretch
any work out
any piece
of perfectly crafted pie
and I want to own it
and bottle it
and take it out
and sell it
for thousands and thousands of dollars
so that I can buy you
the biggest bed in the world
and place it on the moon
so that we can snuggle more
and more
and more
and more
and so that I can have that feeling for ever.

I wanted to impress you...
but I am afraid I have failed

I wanted to impress you
so I shaved my face,
letting you know
that I am proud
of every young wrinkle
and of every scar
that I once hid.

I wanted to impress you
so I wore a shirt with buttons
to show you
getting my shirt off
takes more work
than just a slip of the hands.

I wanted to impress you
so I wrote a poem
with 17  words
that have more
than ten letters in them
to show you
I am smarter than those other boys.

I wanted to impress you
so signed myself up
to read my words
to a group of strangers
putting my own pride on the line
to show you
there are more important things to me.

I wanted to impress you
so I walked 3 inches taller
with my shoulders back
and my waist cocked tightly behind
to show you
I don't care that the world
can see my whole face.

I wanted to impress you...
until I found out
that the only person that you
are impressed by
is none other than your self.

so now I repress you
and your words
and your day to day verbs
to show you
that I am not impressed by you.

Rainy days
they only make
the grass much greener
in our fields of life.

And chaos
of the heart and soul
only make
for more practice
for problem solving
of the body and soul.

You know that I love you forever,
and I know that forever's a long time,
but I cant help but think its more than just words:
I love you so **** much
and you're so **** kind.
I miss you so **** much, but don’t get me wrong,
it's not that I’m not strong
or can't hold on.
It's the way your warm smile lights up the room,
It's cuz your eyes are as pretty as the moon,
the way your soft skin calms my nerves,
and I wont comment too much on your beautiful curves.
I love you, my dear,
more than words can describe;
more than fact is fact,
and more than the biggest bribe.

mechanical bulls riding automated peoples
candy covered chocolate
and sprinkles on sno-cones.
colored dreams
and thoughts with schemes
light bulbs burning bright
and frozen ice cream.
old trophies of victories
and losses of equal kind,
tossed aside memories
like a freegan’s best find.
step in my head,
there's a party going on
I thought I shouldn’t
but I’ll invite you, instead.
never again will I doubt life’s signs
stories and adventures;
candies of all kinds.

Let's live life
in a fashion magazine.
Never slow down,
ever changing.
We'll be what’s in
and far from all.
All the important stuff
will get so small.
The only responsibility
will be to look chic,
fit and nice.
I bet everything's much easier
when thinking too much isn't your vice.

Blaring my factory installed speakers,
making sure to always use my blinkers,
taking each song
and making it my own.
-my very own fight song
-my very own flight song

-the louder the better

The harder the wetter;
faster to break these
god ****** fetters.
its mine its mine
it makes me shine
listening to my solace
is well spent time

The notes of the song -
the quarter notes
the half notes,
eighths and sixteenths
triplets and all variations -

they form in my brain
through the speaker to my ears
and form a picture,
ever flowing and moving
that depicts, sometimes,
your face and your body.

Images of different sorts
some with color and some with out
that can relax and satiate
or do the opposite
and deviate
from the normal cooing
of my heart,
creating an anxiety matched by no other.

The pictures becoming what I see in front of me
as I walk around in life. My brain and nerves -
dancing along
singing their own words to the song
and making everything right
that was once wrong.

And I’m not sure if you will get this
and understand what I mean
but I know my thoughts will never be clean
of images from sounds
dancing all around.

For some strange reason,
by some weird force,
I was drawn to my book
as the open land
does a horse
Like:
                  Addict; drug
                        as
                  dust; under the rug
so deeper and deeper I dug
to find more words
and more verbs.
More adventures in my brain
as I seek to entertain
        -a rhythm to maintain
              -but no tempo to sustain

my pen
my pen
with its ink
made by men
its my sword
its my gun
my armor
and my fun
It's my friend
and my enemy
my scapegoat
and my ride
its my hope
its my love
its my dream
and my pride.

Lesson one
“Subvert the dominant paradigm”
that’s what I was told.
That’s what I hold.
       -that’s my truth
               my mission
                    my hope
and our lesson.

Finding symbolisms
that connect you-
to me
scents and sights
that set my heart free

Baby,
my love is not a bribe,
nor my body or words
or my compassion
or played-out verbs…

What drives this force-
to me, is un-known
and these feelings
have done nothing but grown.

Like a thief in a bank-
my thoughts are more tempestuous
than the Devil driving a tank…
though nothing destroyed
will satiate.

And no words, no gifts,
nothing I can create
will be enough to show
the colors you make me see
-and the melodies in every key
that manifest with-in
every time you are near.

I don’t mean to over do it
or create a sense of fear
nor do I worry
that you may disappear.
circumstances and situations
of many assortments and arrays;
with or without you
will not hinder me
living through the day.

I just simply wish
I could write
the most compelling lines to you,
to move the world-
move the soul
-to make you proud
and feel completely whole.

To bombast all senses,
and knock down fences,
to alert the universe:
that you are in my heart
- to stay.

I’m not sure what it was -
we tumbled to the matress
and our bodies fell limp.
I felt gimp;
curled in a ball,
you tucked within
and us all alone.
we were quiet.
we were soft.
we drifted off
on our make-shift raft
keeping each other warm
against the cracked window’s draft.

An hour later-
as if five minutes -
we both washed back ashore.

we made sighs of relief,
grunts of approval
and I was reminded again
of all the love between us.
and I looked at my hands
thinking I should wash them -
but the ink stains remain
from writing about you time and time again.

I need an auditorium
to whisper some secrets into.

I need a small room
to shout the pure absurdity that I’ve been thinking

I need a place
where I can hug in secret

I need a voice
to caress my mind, agog

I need some solitude
to fly me into those arms

I need the perfect words
to drive me away from broken promises

I need the largest imagination
to tell me what the **** I’m going to do next.

Linguistics for the intangibles -
would that be manageable?
: For one person to sit and create
some words that none can negate
fully explain all which we feel,
those words and verbs
we know to be real.
- To further iterate
our experience had;
words bigger than “happy and sad”

The nerves under my finger tips -
writhing to get loose
to wrap them selves around you
like the slipknot to a noose.

My back,
my torso,
my body,
gravitating towards yours.
Leaning back with out control
to try and rest
upon your chest.

I try and find something to occupy my hands
so that the muscles
do not contract
and constrict
with out will
to reach across the table
and hold your fumbling hands still.

The words
“I Still Love you”
resting just inside my cheek
trying to make their way out
with every other word that I speak.

If there was a truck
that hauled nothing but good luck
in the back of its bed

or maybe a tractor
that carried happenstance
in it’s bucket

or a van which
passengered
devine kismet…

I’d give them all a call
and have them load
and drive
and haul
it all to you -
and dump
nothing but good luck
and fortune
on you.
All **** day.

I need a place in your arms
like the largest diamond
protected by glass, lasers, and guards.

I need a place in your your heart
like a small room
with a large bed
and twenty pillows below a sky-light.

I need a clear path to your head.
Like a red carpet,
V.I.P status,
and velvet ropes.

I need a spot -
the closest one to your chest. Like a reserved parking space
in front of my favorite place to hang out.

I need the warmth of your body
Like a space heater
during a white out.

I need your kiss
like a glass of ice water
after coming inside
from the draining Texas heat.

We all need our secrets
to keep ourselves sane,
to have something to protect
and remind us we are not all the same.

We all need our quiet time -
our own place amongst the clouds -
a place to block out whats near,
a place to beat the crowds.

We all need our reassurance
to let us know we are impressive,
to let us know we are appreciated and cared for,
and to remind us always
that no, the world’s not fair.

We all need to remember that
compassion is not a myth,
consideration is not calculus
and hope is not a destination to miss.

We all need someone to think about
as we drift off to sleep
so that if they are not there
maybe the pillow will transform -
-  with the help of our own body heat.

We all need music,
for reasons of our own,
but ultimately to escape
and not feel like a drone.

We all need a friend
to keep us company at times,
to create un-forgettable memories
to keep us feeling alive.
And also to encourage us
and support us in our goals,
and to be honest all the time
and put us in our place
when our judgment is out of line.

We all need something to look for
something to keep us on our toes.
Something to learn more and more about-
our own gem of knowledge that no one else knows.

We all need a never ending list
of what we want and need -
so that we don’t become stagnant,
and we keep moving forward at a decent speed.

How do you know
when you’ve written the perfect poem?
how do you show it,
when they already know it?
what if I wrote a verse everyday?
and is it more legitimate if I were to get paid?

I have all these words in my head
of love
and of wonder,
of theories
and of blunders.
but will they all fit together?

will they move you and the world
and be something to show?
something to read everyday
-to move you along
and pave a way?

you know if I could,
I’d tell you all the right things
and be your savior,
your encyclopedia,
your wheels ,
and your wings.

I’d have a verse
to cover all topics
-and one to cover all occasions.
and every time you read them
it would be like a vacation.

it would be modest and humble
yet still so aureately moving
it would make your heart rumble;
nothing so contrived, that if the ideals prove inept,
it would make your soul crumble.

…something to show you
that I genuinely care
and that I’m not one big bribe
that hustles love and benevolence
from anywhere.

…something to prove
that compassion is not a myth.
and something
that you can always take-with.

I’ll leave my desire at that
and my plea for unadorned perfection right here….
and I’ll tell you more about it
when you inquire about my fears.

If I had a penny
for every time you popped up in my thoughts,
you know id be rich.
I woke up this morning,
the some-teenth time its happened;
my first thought was you.
-some-teenth
powered by ten,
  -never divided
  -it hasn’t subsided.
I'll ask you if you fell from heaven;
if they’re missing an angel.
I'll look for your tag,
to see where you were made.
I’m sure you MUST be tired,
you’ve been running through my head all day….
what’s more to say?

Riding in the car
with sweaty palms
playing loud,
fast songs
Getting a bit jittery
and maybe a tad bit anxious.

Wondering when it will be
that I can get High
with you next to me.

-On my way to you,
-my drug dealer
-who only deals the finest touches
-and most esquisite caresses

My vision is getting a bit blurry
and my thoughts stray from the road
to thoughts of your face
and I get that message
that I get to see you soon
so I slow down
and take that exit off the hiway
turn around
and tell you to head my way.

You get in the car
and the smiles begin
the hand touching and knee grabbing
and its a wonder
that I can still drive
in this altered state of mind.

We speak some words
about this and that
nothing too funny
yet we laugh until our sides hurt.

Im in love with you
my drug dealer,
my ultimate healer
my mind eraser.

The chemicals start flowing
and I wonder if im spoiling the moment
with scientific physioligical thoughts
validating this thing called love.

The chemicals
that start at the brain
flow through the heart
and down to the genitals
then down through the legs
and back up to the heads
(yes, both of them)
and I can’t get over
how much we feel the same way
and how
even to this day
things have not seemed to change

Hoping I don’t ever build up
too much of a tolerance
to the chemicals you make me feel
my wonderful man,
with the drugs you deal
and all the pain you ****.

Serotonin
Oxytocin
mu-2
Kappa
Melatonin
Acetylcholine
Dopamine
Ep­inephrine

Your love is a drug
your touch is an addiction
with pupil dilation
and body feeling free
I really do
even scientifically get high
when you are next to me

The hormones and pheromones
flow in through my nose
sink into my skin
and flow through
then out again
as we lay entwined
smelling
tasting
and touching each other.

To explain love
is both intangible
illogical
and unknown
while at the same time
a scientific
and physiological study
of the way our bodies interact.

True love
versus
lust and arousal
which is more addicting
and which is something worth predicting?

These must be the reasons
why when we are together
we cannot seem to think
we just want to sleep
we laugh about nothing
and smile for miles
we both go limp
and hard at the same time
sending us both on a ride
that leaves us flying high

I must say
that addiction runs in my family
and I am not sure
I will ever be able to give you up.
Worse than nicotine
caffeine
pills
and alcohol
Your love truly is a drug
and I will never leave you under the rug.

It is said that what is between two people,
is something no other will understand
even the most in depth conversation
can never explain
….and yet here I am
writing ten times a day
to try and convey this feeling to others
all in complete
pride and vain.

…i am
the best looking pair of jeans
sold and re-sold at thrift stores.
i am the collaboration piece
of the world;
so ugly im beautiful,
so confusing i intrigue.
i am modest tofu.
i am an ugly hermit crab
with the most beautiful shell.
i am the pencil that never goes dull
but isnt used enough.
i am the under rated
under appreciated ceiling fan.
i am the worn out shoes
that go with every outfit.
i am
the three hundred year old tree
that is getting cut down tomorrow.
i am the book
that you never finished reading.
i am
the best lasagna
that got pushed to the back of the fridge…
and i have to be,
or else i would be
the word “love”
tossed about
with no more meaning.