Rock step, trip-le, trip-le*
              Rock step, trip-le, trip-le

Judah bids us "Good morning!" at nine at night,
He's like Fred Astaire,
Big moves and big ears.

Dylan is late coming in,
Sliding out of his leather jacket with a sour expression -
He's too cool for this game.

Lindsey drags in the speaker system,
All goofy grins and ugly sweaters,
And she's so happy to see us.

Rock step, trip-le, trip-le

Andy with his slick moves
and slicker hair.

Matt who always smelled strange
but lost to Kevin.

Susan with her tight, swinging hips
and constant critiques.

Pete thinks he can do this,
and then breaks your arm.

Caleb concentrates too hard,
and tries not to look you in the eyes.

Josh gets bored with the basics,
deciding to breakdance instead.

Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
                Rock step, trip-le, trip-le

And after an hour of being passed from one lead to the next
Like a hot potato,
And then standing with your back against the basement wall
During the free-for-all,
You decide you rather be studying algebra
and leave.

Lindsey waves goodbye.

Ty must have a poem written about him.
Preferably in small sentences.
With lots of exclamation points!
It should make people smile,
And introduce itself to everyone.
"Hello! My name is Poem!
What is yours?"
It will be short, like his stay,
So it should probably stop soon -
Too soon, like Ty.

My knees quake violently with the urge to run so far so fast no one will even see me pass
My chest constricts so that I can feel the shape of my heart and I realize it's in two pieces
My breath hitches in my choking throat because the sobs won't fit because they are too big . . .

I've finally come to the conclusion that the human body is simply too small to hold the soul
And that's why we die.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death
I will tremble and quake and hide behind couches.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures
My face is in the carpet, scratched by the wiry pile, and I can't breathe . . .

He leadeth me beside still waters
My tears roll down my face and I can't stop them or stifle the sound.

I will fear no evil, for thou art with me*
But ******* it I fear just about everything else, and most of all, losing you.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life
And what good is that when I don't know if I will live through today?

i always go to the bridge.
always the bridge.
                                                 i'm not sure why.
but every
               single
                      time
i find my feet inevitably leading me
out the door,
         across campus,
                   through the woods,
                                                          ­            and to the bridge.
i can only pray that
on the day it all falls to pieces
my feet won't lead me
                             off it . . .

Poor little puppy,
short scrawny thing with
tiny black eyes that are
sad even while smiling.
He was a present,
cherished and played with,
but now he is often
banished to the corner
while his young owner dreams
of riding golden horses
instead.

That rather awkward moment
When you try to find a rhyme
So you bend over backward
Trying to keep time
And it ends up sounding forced
Even slightly trite
Like you literally sat there
All frigging night
And sweated and banged
Your head on a wall
Trying to come up with
Anything at all
That would sound like a rhyme
Because you are a poet
And you've written before
Though no one would know it . . .
There is such a thing
As a poem with no rhyme
It's called free-verse, ******* -  
You should try it sometime.

Mounds of sheets and piles of pillows
(It's slightly hot in here!)
Sitting up, I brush my head against
The drooping blanket roof;
Silver light and sounds of rain and wind
Add to the cozy cheer
Of curling in a blanket fort, completely
Weatherproof.
Our classes have been cancelled, we're
Advised to stay inside:
We'll don our robes and steep our tea
Against the stormy cold,
And take advantage of this unexpected
Break to go and hide
In blanket forts and make believe
That we are five years old.

alone, and cold, and wanting
nothing more than to wrap my arms around you
and feel your little body against mine
open and trusting, soft and hot
with your loud rasping breathing in my ear
moving the hair on my neck
and your chubby arms squeezing my shoulders
as your tiny clammy hands play with the back of my shirt
and you listen impassively
and think about birds, or lunch, or that you need to go *****
while I tell you in the softest tones I can
that everything will be alright
and that I love you very much
and that I cried when I wrote this.

The preacher man is up there hollerin':
Spittin' hellfire don't fall here, only grace,
But ****, such a hot, fiery grace it is,
People screamin' all over like they was burnin' in it --
Maybe they are,
Burnin' up with thirst, cryin' out about
Walkin' through a desert, tryin' to get to that livin' water . . .
But not me.
I don't see no desert, and I ain't thirsty
'Cause I got me the biggest old lake o' water,
And it's just jumpin' and dancin' there under the sun:
It's all mine and I can drink it, or swim in it,
Or just lay on the bank on my back and soak in the smell of it.
So no, I ain't screamin',
I ain't hoppin' up and down like my feet was on coals.
I'm quiet, quiet, cool and quiet,
And I'm the most alive out of all o' them,
Livin' and just so **** happy
'Cause you are my livin' water
And I love you.

Fake love, true love, red love, blue love,
***** love with cherries on top.

Love is a four letter word - like a curse.
"****, ****, ****, ****, love."
Go put your wishing-well penny in the swear jar.

Love is like pasta,
A flavor-holder for tomato gravy adjectives:
"unconditional", "passionate", and "infinite".
I'll take mine al dente.

You're not "in love", you're "on love",
Because cloud nine gets you higher than *******,
But you fall harder when you come down.

Why write about love?
Why not write about socks?
I'm sure they're almost as universal.

They sure hurt less.

Except when one gets lost in the dryer
And you are left wondering
What you did to make your left sock hate you.

I'm jumpy, sick. It's one in the morning:
two cups of coffee and your eyes
are keeping me awake.

You were watching me and
I was watching you tonight,
but then you left in silence.

I wish I could read you.
There are so many things to wish for,
like better grades and smaller noses,
money, fame, and peace on earth.

I wish that somewhere out there,
beneath the pale moonlight,
sunshine on my shoulders made me happy,
and I could fly, I could fly, I could fly . . .
                              

                            Sleep? No thanks, I'll sit here,
under blinking fluorescent lights
and type bad poetry into this box.