I believe sometimes that I was born for poetry
When my mind is riddled with memories I cannot hold on to longer than sand in the palm
I believe I am born for words on the tongue
Not good words necessarily
Not a great poet
But a poet in the way of words for every situation
Metaphors for a dream
Hate spoken for the hatred
Love told for the lover
Words for the sake of words
A poet by birthright
A pretentious child by luck or curse
A word to the wise
Do not think yourself a poet
Lest you forget the prose planned for a daydream or a crisis or a life
Do not think yourself a poet
For if one is always writing
The best words may be forgotten
I already have
I already have forgotten them
This poem fallen half from my fingers
Unfinished
On the tip of my tongue
Born a word-user
Born a poet
This all will do for now
The next poem comes

It is that same sun that lights your smile
Which, an hour later
Casts shadows on My Love
But, mere mortal, who am I
To choose the hour of the day

Pray tell oh Sun where dost thou go
When dipped beneath
The fiery rocks
That craggy crest
That brazen brow

Your light now gone
I can't recall
For night is all I find
But, mere mortal, who am I
To choose the hour of the day
Or bay the Sun
To stay away

When I was young
Before I felt foreign lips on mine
Cracked the spine of the good book
Saw myself in the mirror
I sat at the window and wished on stars
I wanted fairy wings
a big white horse
a new pair of shoes
Now I am older
Not old enough to whither in wet soil
Old enough to sign my name
To run from large men
To billow smoke
Older still every day
Until there is no older left to be
Until there are no stars left
And shoes don’t run
And horses are too high to reach

A man drops on the field
Falls like a rock to the dirt
Raises a shout from the enemy and a shout from his friends
Deadweight to the company
They will haul him back to camp
Bury him like a goat by the main road
The funeral will be quiet
Men gathered around a mound
They will smoke cigarettes and forget which way up they put his head
The man in the passing truck will tell the news they are praying to an anthill
Dear readers will scoff and throw their hands up and proclaim
We knew it all along! Lunatics the whole lot a’them!
The boys around the man-mound-anthill will not cry in public
Violence has toughened them into men
Violence has killed their friend
They will cry later
After dinner when the sun sets over the field and they think they won’t be seen
Is it man’s nature to turn boys into mounds
To hide tears from friends
To smoke cigarettes by the dead
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
The boy under the anthill
Under the raging sun
Under the cruel eye of god
Man’s nature to wonder
Ashes to ashes
Dust to deadweight

We descend over the city long after nightfall
I look for her eyes in the lights below
I think perhaps I can spot them
                                      if I look closely
I am faster through the airport than the old folks and the children
Watch for my bags with a heart beating through my chest
Smile at the dogs on duty  
And oh what joy
She is not a dream
                                      but flesh and blood and world in a pinpoint
She is just as I have left her
The only soul who has ever been beautiful under fluorescent white
The only soul who has ever drawn joy from me in the airport
And oh what joy
She is not a dream
                                      She is mine

Do you still eat your toast like I do
Around the edges first, until there is only the soft bit in the middle
Do you scan the line for the club
Peer into shop windows, cafe windows, bedroom windows
When you’re falling asleep in the dark do you wonder if you’ll dream of me
Does Bukowski remind you of me
Does Rodriguez
Does your father
Do you still laugh like you did with me
Do you still eat eggs with mayonnaise
Wear stripes and bows and the red canvas trousers
Do you still eat your toast like I do
Around the edges first, until there is only the soft bit in the middle
Do you still eat your toast
The way you consumed me

A flower behind the eye
Roots in the skin
Seeking water not spoiled by sweat and tears
The touch of my lover
The softening of thorns for her handling
The shade of branches for her slumbering
I grow gentle in her arms
Under her gaze
I grow further from the ground
Bloom and flourish and shriek for her
A flower behind the eye
Torn from it roots
Settled in a quiet place
Brushed softly behind her ear