My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.

She was so ******* punk rock
Black chucks and skinny jeans
She loved my ******* ****
I loved her ****** rings
As we breezed into kissing
Upon moments of meeting
Before we were weaving
Eachothers clothes away
For now i stayed
The bad astray
Lost in her eyes
Eyes like mine
In another way
It was another day
Another place
Placed in mind
For another date
Saved for later play
In my own time
I am one
But one of a certain kind
And with my kind at my side
Ill survive all this hype
Inside girls im alright
For tonight
And she was so ******* punk rock
Rocking the world
Bangin the bullies
And flippin the bird
She crys when she ****
She **** when you hit her
She likes her hair pulled
Gets her even wetter
But love her
And lose her
Ill do better
Slam her
And bite her
Please her never

you are flowers
growing between
my railroad
ribs

There once was a pirate named Janus
whose deeds were particularly heinous,
so when he was caught
the trial was short:
Two years with a mouse up his ****.

Oh, the agony,
no rest, even when I sit.
Two years, a long time!

When Janus was finally free
the mouse was nowhere to see
but Janus was clever,
instead of a lever
he lured it out with a Brie.

and
she laid there
admiring
his
every
breath
every
sigh
every
dimple
every
scar
every
perfectly created
imperfection
and it was
heaven

Rest in paradise to all who shall
Forever dwell in the mind of a pal.
Immortality is the quest for some
Though promised time is dispersed to none.
Speak ever so softly to my soul
Unfortunately our world is cold.
Higher and higher we go from here
If not then surely the end is near.
Bless thy heart with sincere morale
Rest in paradise to all who shall.

You bought a dress shirt,
Button-up and black.
I could see your mood in your eyes
like the shirt in my hand
dark and neatly pressed.
Buttons in a perfect row of black on black.
I undid them hurriedly
so I could get the **** hanger off
and put your purchase in the bag,
then flushed and looked away
hoping you wouldn't notice,
suddenly struck by how intimite a gesture
undoing a button could be.

I was walking next to an elderly woman.

Suddenly she stopped, bent over, and picked up a dime

that was lying there on the sidewalk.

"Wow!!" I said to her. "Now you will have ten days of good luck."

"Yes," she replied, smiling. "My late grandfather is  always dropping money for me from Heaven."

I smiled at this thought.

Then she said, "I,wish he would start dropping hundred-dollar bills !"

Imagine a butterfly, gracefully letting the wind brush its wings as they reflect the sunshine caressing their gleaming purity,
stroking the empyrean
with their
innocence,
coloring the sky more wonderful than Da Vinci's brush ever could,
as the oceans are revived by the tears squeezed from his heart, tumbling down as the first rays of spring penetrate the hardened hand of winter, releasing its grip at the sight of the butterfly´s pouring eyes.

Now, imagine the butterfly falling from heaven as its throne crumbles in the crispness of dawn, his wings broken by the harsh winds of fall,
his life floating from his cracked lips
as his scorned body
ignites
in the last rays reaching through the hand more clenched than ever, no longer afraid of the butterfly burning in the darkest of nights, his eyes telling stories of the pain of being beaten by time.

Imagine a
butterfly,
dying in the ashes of summer getting swept through the streets by the northern wind.

Imagine a
butterfly on fire, his passion put on ice, never to
ignite
again.