we are not
who we are
at our best
anymore
than we are
the sum
of our worst
aspects.
we are
what we pretend to be:
misanthropes
possessed of empathy.
walking paradoxes.
amalgamations.
spectrums
in multicolor.

There's a place that I go
back to-
and it's a garden,
filled with flowers

  and it's somewhere in the Northwest
   where the forest moths and stretching firs
wait quietly for showers

it's there
where Monarchs
    gather in
       kaleidoscopes

and my densely swollen shadow
   next to piercing sun
   elopes

There's a place that I go
          back to
where the plague of
  dreams engulfs me

and it's at the end
of a nestled street
  I find a
    fever that exults
me.

Back at the shore, on my own this time,
I'm free now, yes, but alone.
I'm left with nothing,
No pain,
No rhyme,
On a beach less sand than stone.


The tide still licks the shore for crumbs,
But nothing hides beneath.
No voice calls out in dark, feigned scorn,
No stoic secretly cries for release.


The world outside worked magic for real,
It promised us strength in identity,
But now I'm just beginning to feel,
There's actually something wrong with me.


I can't go back until I know,
That your death has served some purpose.
What chance is there, to survive and grow,
When even ghosts can hurt us?


"Perhaps", I said, "it's all unspoken", aloud,
To myself, discovering,
How words can wound but silence drowned,
A heart that's still recovering.

This little bag I hope will prove
To be not vainly made —
For, if you should a needle want
It will afford you aid.
And as we are about to part
T'will serve another end,
For when you look upon the Bag
You'll recollect your friend.

A painting of men,
tangled in a web of flesh.
Drifting into hell.

Drifting into sleep,
I put on your mix CD
to rinse my eyes clean.

I would pray for you.
Writing it gives me chills and
I might wash my hands.

I yearn for your arms,
and exhale daydreams of love.
Pretending to breathe.

I want you to breathe.
I choke you as we **** and
say something nasty.

You know, John Cage said,
"In the dark, all cats are black."
Maybe that's why we

close our eyes to kiss,
or sleep in each others arms;
We don't fear our night.

Beauty is
In the eyes
Of each drop
Of dew