Is he patient with your moods?
Does he understand the difference
between weather and climate;
a weekend of sunshine
does not mean that it is summer.
Does he know how it feels
to be stuck in January for years?
Does he open the curtains
and expect your skin to tan?
Does he kiss between your legs
to pay off his passionless debts,
and does he bring you flowers
for all the times he forgets?
The tulips are vibrant in the vase.
Does anything else you know
contain that much colour and life?

We are young, they say,
like the new stars forming,
like the ocean sounds adorning
sleep to the city dweller,
with his leathered face
but handsome pay.

He's exchanging the sirens
for a more rhythmic pace,
taking off his coat
and professional face,
to press you to the wall,
forgetting the Keats and the Byrons
that came before.

We are young, I'm sure,
despite having to crawl,
despite disappearing into
the city sprawl,
and returning half a person,
only memory intact,
and a stream of shutting doors.

You're giving up too soon.
Too soon a disciple of established fact,
too soon beguiled by
your own stage-lit act;
a smile worn, rather than felt,
a dress bought for him,
but never touched,

and for all of the hands
you may have dealt,
not a single one
has kept you young.

Tonight is the same sort of hazy, misty night as the one almost a year ago,
When we walked through the construction sites and took pictures of the beams the streetlights sighed into the darkness.
I think I'd like to walk again tonight, through the rows of corn
Searching for a bit of moonlight-
Or perhaps your star overhead,
Peeking from behind the low, rolling charcoal clouds.
I spend my time with you.
It is my decision.
You do not have to spend your time with me,
But neither can you keep me from this choice: to walk with you,
Whether you are there to steal the night's velvety light and hold it beneath your skin,
Or not.

1+1=2
This is what my teacher taught me
As I sat in class with blond pigtails trailing down my back
And dreams as big as the endless sky
Dancing through my child mind.

1+1=1
This is what you taught me
As my hair hung loose and long down my back
And I lost myself in those deep, brown eyes
As the silver moon watched our slow, slow grind.

1+1=3
This is what our son taught me
As my hair lay tussled and messy down my back
And the hospital room filled with newborn cries
As I held his tiny hand in mine.  


*What will the next lesson be?

God,
**** them *******
before they **** me.

Amen.

r ~ 9/18/14

Today there were two
people talking too much
and too loud
in the library.


Guy says,
looking down
nose moving with his eyes
over the Times New Roman legs
of a book.

"He broke up with her because
her ***** smelled like ****."

The girl across from him
has tiny fingers with no knuckles,
fingers that make tacking noises
on her Macbook.

She smiles,
in aquamarine
as the screen dazzles her pale
face.

"She probably had a yeast infection,
or something."

There are too many people talking,
but what rights do I have?

The right to laugh with them,
to be a part of it,
to be a comrade
to be mad because they're talking
while I'm pretending not to listen
and agree?

I broke up with a girl
because her ***** smelled like
an *******.

There are too many people
full of double-entendres
and irony.

Satan loves unforgivness.
It condemns two souls

at one time


10W
Soul Survivor