Her voice is strained.
Her skin is fair.
Her ******* lay on the countertop.
I **** her until my thoughts stop.

She rejects the notion of love for all,
as she leans against my kitchen wall,
with a cigarette and an unbuttoned blouse-
she wants to be homeless in my house.

She keeps me in her necklace's locket,
and I keep her in the wallet in my pocket.
Her toes kiss the linoleum,
she walks like she's made of helium.

She mumbles that I taste like mint chocolate chip,
as she rubs against my hip.
Her breath smells like Malboro Lights,
and I hope she decides to stay the night.

Milky Ways and Vanilla Cakes,
she likes the way my body shakes,
as we lay and eat our troubles away.
Hurried words slow the day.

She asks me about my stretch marks and scars,
and if I've ever been hit by a car.
And I say no, but I've been hit by love before,
and it feels like getting your hand caught in a door.

Hurried smiles and bathroom stalls,
she likes the way my family never calls.
The words escape between her plump lips,
as my hand travels between her hips.

We move until we forget
that the world is moving faster.

Shut the **** up.**
It's hard dating anyone,
and *a poet's no different.

You traced the horizon with your fingertips
as if the sunset was something you painted
with Kool-Aid and cornstarch.

The ocean spit salty on the backs of our necks
As the sun faded behind the skyline of the city.
You kissed me hard then lit a cigarette. Laughing,
"Nobody watches the sunset on the East Coast."

I lay my head on your shoulder
as you dug trenches in the sand with your feet.
We sat in silence for a while, and that was okay.
You always said if the words aren't there, don't force it.

If the love isn't there don't force it.

If the love isn't there don't force it.

If the love isn't there don't force it.

I keep that sunset you painted with me all the time
and I look at it when I can't remember
what the sun feels like.

Wrinkled with time and more dull than I remember
it still stains my fingertips red and leaves a sugary sweet taste
on my tongue.

I drink in hopes of stopping my thought process,
Or at least slowing it down.
In hopes of forgetting your name
In the abyss in which I drown.

I want to see Jesus.
Not the storybook one in the white robes with the blue eyes,
the dark-eyed Jesus, brown-skinned and stained.
I want to see Jesus the man who was God
the man whose feet were *****
whose sweat dripped as he sawed the wood with Joseph,
whose hair fell into his eyes as he bent over his work.
I want to see Jesus whose lean back was muscled from years of hard labor
whose hands were rough from handling raw timber,
who could have fought the soldiers and won because he was fit and able
but who didn't because that wasn't the plan.
I want to see Jesus strong, respected by men, honest and capable,
used to negotiating prices, smiling and confident.
I want to see Jesus the man who loved his mother
and followed her instructions even when he would have preferred not to.
I want to see Jesus the man who was God
when he walked through the crowds who loved him,
disappeared from those who would harm him
and strode across the water as though it were land.
I want to see Jesus the man
who gave up his healthy, well-liked, successful life
to become the savior of the world.
I know God--
invincible, maker of heaven and earth, almighty, omnipotent, omniscient, always with us.
I want to know Jesus
who came to earth
just because he loved me.

And their feet move
rhythmically, as tender
feet of Cretan girls
danced once around an

altar of love, crushing
a circle in the soft
smooth flowering grass

the world is too large to be swallowed whole,
too nasty to be chewed.

however,
if you bake up some red velvet cake
and insert a symphony or two
then ice a picture of a heart a hand and a sun on the side,

you can sprinkle the nastiness lightly on top and
my oh my,
how it will sit warm
and happy in your body
which paces onward.

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.

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

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.