reading what you write
sometimes gives me the
feeling of watching a
low budget **** film,
with a royalty-free excuse
to let a wah-wah pedal
accompany the wet
absence of passion.

      (a wildfire in a glass box
        or Kali candystriping in the
          cancer ward.)

you cannot expect  
spines to tingle when
you refuse to acknowledge  
the deepening abyss in the
facets of self you wear
like hospital gowns.

sometimes i see the naked
singularity hidden behind
your "this is me" event-horizon
and i bathe in it's impossibility;
i could drown in it's defiance, smiling,
if only you could learn to...