When I write poems
none of you see me at all
what the **** am doing wrong
just makes me feel like small Paul

Them sat next to me
all in my mind was her knees
but still she sat next to me
whom she was
I do not know
or know why
she sat there or the because
But she sat there.

We are married
after dinner we see
we are not ment for the
passion is no more
in fact we please no longer each other
it drips, but we think
Just please yourself
and that makes my body feel ill.

Got a better perspective
as you puked on
the floor

Your apathy is deafening in the nothingness of its soundless declaration of my rank and grateful is the feeling inside of this obsession which ties me to some kind of passionate facsimilie since the next indicated step from here is clearly feeling amputee status.
Woopee, yay me.

airy though they are,
I can feel the heft of the cigarettes in my pack of Marlboro No. 27's
cigarettes I hold in my lips to think of you

that fall apart now
burning my wrists and remind me
of the night that Jordan dropped a firework from Wisconsin
into the fire pit
bringing angry tears to the eyes of Eric's drunken father
and your friend
a stranger to me
turned to you and told you blindly
that another fire just as bright ignited
between your hands and mine
and not to let go

I wanted to cling to you then
but the world already pushed us apart

I send messages to you now
telling you about my gas grill
and the new varieties of malt liquor that I have discovered up north
(Schlitz?!)

once you told me that you'd like to get married
when we are both old and alone
driven from the places we've tried to call home
and with my Colt 45 and your No. 27 supported loosely in my hands I said
Yes

I can't deliver the dawn
the sunset is bleak
when it rains in the ocean
the skies are opaque

I can't reign in the darkness
when time is an arc
but I feel the weight
of solitude