Unfinished sentences have become my forte.
Unvoiced emotions have become my norm.

When you see penguins or giraffes,
When you taste pancakes or lo mein,
When you hear josh turner on the radio,
When you drive through the eclectic neighborhoods
Of hilly chilly San Francisco,
Will you miss...

I will always love...
Even though I shouldn't...
But maybe one day...
Yeah...
One day this won't hurt so much...

Right?

nobody loses all the time

i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle

Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added

my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when

my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner

or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol

and started a worm farm)

She stopped to cry,
Over the roadkill,
She was on no substance,
Clearheaded she wept,
Crimson tears,
Through champagne eyes,
Her sweat rippled through her skin,
She grew stems with,
Rainbow leaves,
Translucent,
Placid,
Fortuitous,
She connected it all in the final second,
Compassion was carefree,
She lived and died,
Growing tired,
With tragic wings.

Throughout my life I've pledged to make you mine.
As if, by wish, this vow would then come true.
So, would I practice words of pretty rhyme,
and, with my heart, would offer them to you.
Oh, how I wish myself to be a poem;
To enter through your eyes into your heart.
For it is there I wish to make my home.
I cannot bear that we should ever part.
But sometimes, when I search to see your face;
I, startled, see you looking back at me!
Could God, in kindness, spare a gift of grace;
or does He smile on simple fools as we?

Still, artfully I do the things I do.
The world might sing if I could speak to you.

A poem's worth is in the rhyme
It's in the flow
and in the time
It's in the beat
One of a kind
But most of all it's in the mind

Gentle is the heart that weeps
Mournful is the soul that yearns
Gorgeous is the memory that lingers
Joyful were the hands that held
You

Imagine a world,
Of golden trees,
With purple skies,
and turquoises leaves.

See the fields,
Of silver grass,
Where an amber river,
Will slowly pass.

Imagine clouds,
Of diamond blue,
That cover stars,
That hang askew.

See a creature,
With emerald eyes,
Sapphire fur,
And large in size.

The world you see,
Could it be mine?
A world where you,
And I design.