I'll *******,
If you want.
Cause I want it
Just as bad as you do.
But I also want to hear the rustle of the sheets
When you turn over in the middle of the night.
I want to feel your hot breath on my neck.
I want the stubble on your chin to graze my cheek
As you kiss me gently on the forehead.
And when I whisper "goodnight," you don't have to reply.
Just nudge me with your knee
Or poke me with your elbow.

Your lips
Were the first thing I noticed
Gently parted
Breathing in and out

Oh to be your words
Conceived within your mind
Born upon your lips

Poetry.

Your lips are ******* poetry.

I can't seem to write
anything these days.
There's just no poetry
in my misery.

I can't seem to right
anything these days.
There's just no cogency
in my apologies.

You look as I remember
Handsome and tall
But when I see you now
I feel nothing at all.

You still smell like soap
And faintly of pine
But when I smell you now
I don't wish you were mine.

Your laugh sounds the same
Boyish and gay
But when I hear it now
I don't want you to stay.

Your eyes they still sparkle
Blue like the sea
But when you leave tonight
It won't be with me.

Your voice still sounds sweet
When you call my name
But when you say it now
It just isn't the same.

What we once were
I can't seem to recall
Because when I see you now
I feel nothing at all.

So, I like lipstick
And kissing someone I know
Or someone I don't

My friend is a painter.
My friend is a singer.
Self-sabotage is the only thing I'm good at.

The electricity
in that moment,
when your hand first
brushed past mine,
could have lit up New York City
for the night.

I could have lived in that moment.
Plugged in.
Turned on.

But, in the same way we got used to
light switches and indoor plumbing,
I got used to your touch.

What I wouldn't give
to go back to candlesticks and outhouses
for just one night
so that when you reach for my hand tomorrow,
I won't be jaded by the light that now seems
so perfectly ordinary.

When it was late, and quiet,
And we'd lie in bed in silence
Staring up at the ceiling or
at the shadows on the wall,
Just when I'd think we'd
run out of things to say,
Just when I'd let myself start to drift
toward the peacefulness of unconsciousness,
You'd sigh deeply and plunge head-first
into an existential rant
worthy more of Kafka or Camus
than a half-asleep me.
Me, worried about the absurdity of gas prices,
not the absurdity of life.
And I'd roll my eyes when you'd ask me questions
I'd never even entertained, let alone have the answers to.
And you'd wonder if you'd ever find a meaning,
or a purpose.
And I'd tell you not to worry; to live more in the moment
If there is meaning, you'll find it
If not, you'll define it.
And you'd kiss me gently on the forehead,
And I'd roll over and fall asleep,
But I suspect you'd lay awake for hours after,
Never truly satisfied with the answers I, or anyone else
could ever seem to give you.

And I wonder now sometimes,
If you lie in bed next to someone new,
And ask her the same questions you used to ask me.
Maybe she has better answers.
Maybe she makes you forget about your questions.
Maybe you still lie awake at night,
wondering if you'll ever find what it is you're looking for.

And I still don't have the answers,
And I still don't understand all the questions,
But sometimes I lie awake at night,
Staring up at the ceiling or
at the shadows on the wall,
And I wonder if I'll ever find a meaning
or a purpose.
And I find I'm never truly satisfied with the answers
anyone can ever seem to give me.

There's a light on my front porch
that comes on when I open the door at night.
I step outside to light a cigarette and
stand there under the bulb
watching the bushes move
with the wind and the scurrying of
little lizards.

But if I stand really still,
the light goes off and
for a few moments, I can disappear.
I can still hear the crickets and
a few cars in the distance, but
it's disembodied sound.

It's quiet. Dark. Far removed from
the reality illuminated by the sun
during the day and the sensor light
on the front porch at night.

I focus all my energy on
keeping my movements small, controlled.
The slight rise and fall of my chest as
I breathe. The modest shuffle of my
feet as I shift my weight from one
side to the other.

My thoughts are completely occupied
with making sure I stay invisible.
Reality exists only in the glow
of that wretched porch light.

But eventually, I feel the heat between my
fingers, jolting me back to an existence
where I have worries greater than
making sure I stay absolutely still.

When you said you liked me,
I smiled.
And when I went home,
I smiled.

When you said you liked my poems,
I smiled.
And when I went home,
I cried.

You poured into me
like cream into coffee.
Quickly.
Beautifully.
And once it began,
impossible to stop.
You dove into my core,
Swirling.
Binding.
Redefining.

You didn’t try to destroy
the dark parts of me.
You embraced them,
kissed them
gently.
Lightening the dark,
by sharing the burden.
You told me my strength
was beautiful.
And that being strong
doesn’t have to mean
being alone.

We were unassuming yet
extraordinary.
And I grew comfortable in the close quarters
of our singular pronoun.

Life without you now is
like giving up coffee;
It’s so hard to wake up.
Until one day,
it’s not.

I trace my fingertips across the car door
making designs in the dirt.
You yell at me,
but I can't hear you.

All I can hear is the
pounding of my heart.
The blood pumping through my body
echoes in my ears,
and your voice sounds distant.
What I imagine it sounds like after a bomb goes off to those
who were standing too close.

I stare at the the ground, the setting sun,
the neat circles of dirt on the tips of my fingers,
anywhere but at you.
Even though your looks are
bouncing off me like rubber bands,
even though your words sound
like they're going through a filter,
I can tell you are begging me to look at you.

Ears ringing, eyes stinging,
I slowly meet your gaze.
Now, I'm no lip reader,
but I could see the venom dripping
off your lips as you spoke.
There's no mistaking that foul, fricative-fronted phrase.

But I deserve it, I know.

You look as if you are about to say something else,
but you stop yourself with just a nanosecond to spare.
The words left your brain but
never made it to your tongue.

Instead, the thought manifested itself in silent tears
that dripped down your face.
Tracing my mistakes
across the the cheeks I used to caress,
down the neck I used to kiss,
toward the heart I didn't mean to break.

You run your fingers across maps
Like you are caressing the cheek
of your dying lover
for the last time

It doesn't get cold here in Florida.
The leaves never seem to change.
The A/C stays on, the asphalt stays warm,
A day below 60 is strange.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida,
At least not down south, on the coast.
The seasons go by, and it rains for a while,
And barely a breeze at the most.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida.
Sandals and short sleeves abound.
Scant is a sweater, and for worse or for better,
Pools are open year round.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida,
At least not by way of degrees, but
Your aloof demeanor gives need for a heater,
Without one, I think I might freeze.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida, but
You could have fooled me with your chill. If
Your eyes are your weapon, then baby I reckon,
When you look, you aim to ****.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida,
That's what I used to say.
Until I stepped out in a moment of doubt,
And you've never stopped making me pay.

The armrest between us
feels dangerous.
Here I sit
separate
in my chair
safe
on my own.

The tension is thick
like the rim of your glasses
thick
like the lump in my throat.

I focus on not touching you
so much so, that I forget
about the no-man's land that is
the armrest.

Our fingers touch briefly.
It's an accident.

It's electric.

And our hands do a dance,
delicate and graceful.
A ballet of avoidance.

Ceasing movement,
content in our solitude,
A sigh of relief.
Of disappointment.

Then, a sudden attack.

You lace your fingers between my own
and gently squeeze my hand.

You don't look at me.
And I am grateful.

There is no place for me here

Where they dream of comfortable lives

Talk about football and weekend plans

Holding hands as they walk down aisle four

Split the grocery bill then drive home to his place

That will someday become their home

And oh how we wanted to travel and see things

Skydive, mountain climb

Travel to Africa, build houses, learn languages

And just be

But then that job offer was too good to pass up

And it’s so much easier to raise a kid with family close by

So we put it off for now

Just for now, for a little while

Until the timing is right

Until we have more money, vacation days

Then there was the new car, the college tuitions, and that trip with her parents down to Grand Cayman for their 60th wedding anniversary  

Now it’s graduations and grandkids

What happened to Africa?


They still go shopping

Together, sometimes

He pays with their credit card, she pushes the cart

They had a comfortable life

Your shirt was missing a button
and I couldn't help but notice
but you told me I was pretentious
so I pretended not to see it
but all day long it bothered
me and I couldn't help but stare
at the way the fabric bunched
and nobody seemed to care

The way her lipstick stains
the rim of her wine glass,
and the way she uses
the back of her hand
to wipe away the purple
drops from her
perfect lips
is so
*******
gorgeous.
And suddenly I understand
why he choose her
over me.

His name was meant
for someone three times his age.
Someone who reaches into
the pocket of his sweater
for little hard candies,
amidst games of shuffleboard
and canasta.

I would have never pegged him
for a Walter or a Leonard.
(Wait, was it Larry?)

But then again,
the way he
sweet talked me into
his bed that night,
I would've never expected to
wake up alone
the next morning.

A post-it note balancing delicately
on the indentations of his pillow;
*Had to go to work. Nice meeting you, doll.

It smelled like cheap beer
and stale cigarettes,
and my shoes stuck to the floor.

My head throbbed with an ache
even my ***** tonics couldn't soothe,
and watching you watching her made me
feel short of breath.

I shook her hand and smiled
as I glanced at the hickey on your neck.
You gave me a hug and offered me a cigarette,
and I smoked it in the corner
Alone.

Your windblown hair and
your windbound heart
inhabit a single memory.
Sad eyes in the rearview mirror
Pursed lips and perverted thoughts
Like how your hand resting on her thigh
should be resting on mine
instead.

It was fleeting,
But impressive.
It was impractical,
But not impossible.
Today I entertained the thought
Of leaving behind everything I know
For a chance at something
I don’t.
I’m still here.

He veers to the left when he walks
in and out of lives
up and down city streets.
His gait clumsy
and haphazard
bumping passersby
and knocking glasses off tables.
Slack jawed stares and
excited whispers;
unphased
unwavering
steady in his unsteadiness.
He meanders down alleyways;
breaking hearts
and preconceived notions about
what a vagabond should
or shouldn’t be.

I used to do things, you know,
with my time.
I used to read;
books, sometimes magazines.

I used to garden.
(Can you imagine?)
I planted tomatoes
and an aloe plant, some flowers.

I used to write, on occasion
mostly short stories
and some essays
here and there.

I liked to cook
and not just scrambled eggs,
(though you always liked my scrambled eggs)
but whole meals
and bake too.

I used to do things, you know
before you.

You told me I was your
terra firma
because you could always
count on me to be there
when even you
didn't want to be there

I relished the fact that you
would consider me your
anything
let alone something
that sounded so strong and
beautiful

Your extraplanetary misadventures
in love and lust and
all things fleeting
left your wobbly legs aching for
solid ground

But you should know
I'm here to hold you up
not for you to
walk all over

When I watch movies alone,
sometimes
even something just
mildly sad
makes me cry.

Something that would
make others give
an empathetic nod
or let out an
exasperated sigh
makes me
weep.

I chalk it up to
good writing, good
acting.
Character attachment is
so important.

But really, it
just feels good
to have a reason to
sob like that.

Salty tears and
bitter groans,
go down just a little bit
sweeter
when a sad scene in a movie
justifies their
unsavory appearance.

Sticky sweet memories
cling to the side
of my mason jar mind

Like blackberry jam.

Berries plucked
and kisses stolen
beneath a sultry summer sky.

Nothing but sweat and
white teeth and
purple stained finger tips.

But now it's cold--
too cold
for blackberries.

I spread what's left
of the jam
on some dry toast

And savor the taste.

This is the poem where she stays.
This is the poem where her hand grazes
the doorknob, turns 45 degrees
then stops.
She stands still staring at a spot
just above the doorframe.
(What is that—a water stain?)
She bites her lip and waits;
listens
to your apologies stuck
like a lump in your throat.
And you watch her hand twitch
and you pray
that she doesn’t turn the doorknob
any further.

This is the poem where she turns around.
This is the poem where she gives
you an icy stare
but she stays; sits
in her favorite chair.
She crosses her legs and she waits;
listens
to your frantic explanations
about why you did what you did and
how you’ll never do it again.
And she wonders
if you really mean it.

This is the poem where you kiss her.
This is the poem where she doesn’t resist,
but doesn’t quite reciprocate.
She takes her bag back
to the bedroom to unpack
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if she starts putting her stuff away
where it belongs, or if instead
she puts the packed bag by the bed
incase she changes her mind.

This is the poem where you come home late
from work the next day.
This is the poem where she pushes you away.
She screams and makes threats
about the bag by the bed.
She’ll leave you—she swears it.
Just give her a reason.
You calm her down with words
like “I love you,” and “Trust me.”
****** forth your phone
“Call the office, if you must, babe.”
She walks towards the bedroom
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if you can hear the exact moment
when she stops loving you.

This is the poem where she leaves, anyway.
This is the poem where she doesn’t look back
as you beg and you plead
and grovel on your knees.
You paint a picture with your words
of your life before this.
How you wish it never happened!
“What if it never happened?”
She stops and she drops
her bag on the floor
She turns and she stares
at you in the door.
“You can’t change the past.
You can’t wish it away.
It’s just not that kind of poem, babe.
This is not the poem where I stay.”

The walls
of my Fortress of solitude
are Formidable.
I can see out
but
they
can't see in.

My Clever Castle
is shielded
from those who wish to
tear
me
down.

Most days, people
walk right on by
maybe stopping to stare
for a just a
moment
or two.

As I stood at the top of my
Peaceful Palace
staring down at the manor
below,
I saw him
with a hammer and chisel
slowly
breaking brick.

From a flowering plant
From a naive heart
Harvested and opened
Roasted and transformed
Broken and darkened
By life
By process
Ground into powder

                                     Pulverized

Boiled and burned
Strained

                                     Drained

Not even a fraction
Of what it once was
But the result
is
Delicious
Sustaining

                                 ­    Beautiful

Experienced differently
Enjoyed
Interpreted
Or
Suffered through
Differently

Drink up.

Hello there, old feeling
I thought I bid you farewell
We have met so many times
And it always ends
In disaster

When we part, we vow
Never to speak of our tryst
For our forbidden love is over
Once again, and forever

Or at least until the next time
I say, "Hello there, old feeling,
I had forgotten about you"

Perhaps this is our fate
To meet in secret on occasion

And in the times we spend apart;
How bad I want you, but
How much better I am without you

Either way, old feeling
It's you I'm thinking of.

I grow up
but you don't
Etched in a memory
Laughing
Bereft of ego
and adult responsibilities

I grow old
but you don't
Stuck in the amber
of a yesteryear
Forever fourteen
White teeth and sweaty palms

I grow hard
but you don't
Frozen by a lens
Smiling
Nothing but sunshine
Behind bright, brown eyes

If bad things come in threes,
Why do good things come one at a time?
Why do the bad things lead to the development of bad habits
Sleeping till noon, ******* down cigarettes
Like they contain oxygen.

Yet the good things are fleeting.
Not even around long enough to take a picture,
To hang on a cracking cork board above my bed.

I will only be comfortable
If you're as uncomfortable as I am.
I'll only let my guard down
If you let yours down first.

Someone once told me
That in every relationship
One person always cares more than the other.
One person's attachment runs a little bit deeper.

Ignorance is bliss,
But power and control,
I can't relinquish that.

Let me simplify
what you can't justify
by saying
it's futile
and unimportant.
You're lackluster
and distorted.
This time is vacuous
And holds no meaning
So watch it play out
And quit your dreaming.

A fish needs water
I need someone to love me
What's the difference?

Spolied circle stuck rotating
pulsating
to the beat of a drummer
that plays music
even he won’t listen to.
Parachuting little yellow spheres
Tuned in to ****** pop songs
Rubbing out unpleasant thoughts
with cheap wine.
Waking up to sweat-soaked sheets
and a bitter taste on your tongue.

This time last year
I was so happy.
Today I can't stop staring at
my basket of laundry,
wishing it would
fold itself.

I want to dissolve
like the sugar
in my coffee.

Down feathered and soft,
Pressed up against me at night;
They can't replace you.

I want to be inspired by something
I mean really inspired
To change something
Make something better.

I want to care about something
I mean really care
To know what it feels like to love something
More than anything.

I want to have great ***
I mean really great ***
To lose myself in someone else
In pleasure and placidity.

I want to feel something
I mean, anything really
To assuage this suspicion
That I don’t have it in me.

I returned to the place
where I use to escape
from the pedestrian affairs
of life in suburbia.

Many nights spent
collapsed on the pavement
swapping humdrum stories
of teenage angst.

It was the end of a road
just north of town
with nothing but swampland
in two directions.

Far enough away
from the sprawl of the city
to understand quiet
without getting lost.

An abundance of stars
made us feel insignificant
and the freedom of isolation
gave us confidence and strength.

It was balanced and beautiful
like we were, back then,
just the right amount
of elation and confusion.

So then it was silly, I guess
for me to expect
that a place like that
would still be the same.

It's a strip mall now,
sleek and amalgamated
and the unkempt sawgrass
replaced with pigmented mulch.

Bated breath;
dry lips parted
attached
to tense limbs
and
cold feet stamped
on wet pavement.

waiting on words
to flow
from a swollen tongue
thick
with empty promises.

red eyes watch
with a façade of
jaded apathy
given away only
by dry lips,
tense limbs,
and cold feet.

Maybe it’s the weather.
It is raining.
Or maybe it’s the futility of life.
Maybe it’s the losing of friends.
The pressure to evolve
Into a carbon copy.
Maybe it’s the realization that everyone dies alone
No matter who you meet along the way.
Maybe it’s the lack of ambition
Mistaken for a lack of purpose.
Or perhaps the lack of purpose
Mistaken for a lack of ambition.
Or maybe it’s the weather.
It is raining.

It's Saturday
And I feel lonely
I drink some coffee
And I feel lonely
I do the laundry
And I feel lonely
I ride my bike
And I feel lonely
I buy some groceries
And I feel lonely
I watch TV
And I feel lonely
I smoke a pack
And I feel lonely
I down a bottle
And I feel lonely
I think of you
And I feel lonely
I call you up
And I feel lonely
The doorbell rings
And I feel lonely

I see you
You come in
I have you
You leave

And I feel nothing

I remember vividly,
Thanksgiving, 1999.
I asked my mother
for a sip of her wine
(Pinot Grigio).

She hesitated, then laughed,
and let me press my small lips
against the rim
of the long stem glass.

The cool liquid
stung the back
of my throat
as it went down,
and I furrowed my brows
in disgust.

"Why would anyone drink this?"
Adult laughter erupted
around the table.

I didn't smile.
I wondered what they knew
That I did not.

Flash forward.
Present day wino
with a strong preference
for red
but a known policy
of indifference.

I enjoy it now.

But every once in a while,
I take a sip
that stings the back
of my throat.
And as I furrow my brows
in disgust,
I remember
That I still don't know
anything.

She doesn’t move
when she thinks about him.
His thoughts consume her thoughts and
render her motionless.
She can’t cry when she thinks
about the time together they will never have ,
because how can you miss
something you don’t even know?
How can you lose
something you never even had?

I am flesh
weak and bruised.
I am blood
dark and damning.
I am bone
rigid and cold.
I am flesh
soft and smooth.
I am blood
warm and teeming.
I am bone
strong and resilient.
I am flesh
and blood
and bone.
It is all I can be.
And it has to be enough.

The thunder clouds are rolling in
And all I want is your skin
On my skin
The taste of your sheets
In my mouth
As I bite down
Hard
They smell like you
Like us
Our lust
And the rain on the roof
The whisper on your lips
A kiss
A moan
An unsuppressed groan
When you touch me
With fire
Fingers crooked and long
Our bodies together
Dance to a song
The music we make
My whole body aches
For you
For us
Our lust
In these sheets
I taste
A future
Where this
Rainy day bliss
Of your skin
On my skin
Long after the sunshine
Has filtered back in