The waitress sends signals in neon code,
through Christmas illuminations stretching across
the car-park, and straight into my ***** orange.

She laughs through awkward platitudes,
and all the beards that comment on her skirt.
She's working to make a living,
somewhere down the line.

I watch as she scribbles poetry on old receipts,
eyes glossing over the ketchup stains,
and into the passing of the moment.

I hope that she is writing of escape;
of better times and better sleep.
She will smash the glass ceiling,
and save us from the greenhouse effect.

Baritone singers lure her into art,
into the promise of soft-hearted men
with a resilient chest.

The waitress waits for a signal
to restart her life. There will be flares
on the horizon, there will be new lovers
leaning on their cars in the sun.

She will finally get to sit.
She will thank the waiter for her drink.

I have had enough of people  
Of life
I have had enough of the noises
We make on cue
The buttons pressed
The buzzes and whirs
That always fizzle
The righteous anger
And the bloodlust masquerading as fact
The hopeless treadmill of pleasure
And this glass of high proof alcohol
That disinfects my heart

stifle quaint bitterness
superfluous objectivity
scant faces run dire with shame
anger, drilling deeper
resonance in faith; signs of release

chain the lion
thoughts faded into mystery
anesthetize burning eyes with compassion
locked in fate, mired with doubt
seethe life, breathe free

imprisonment forgotten
heart set free
dark sunset, rising grey with deceit
stolen mind, contemplative

foreign feelings
lost to hatred
found again
speak, child
share my heart with all the hurt
suffer no more

found shame
shared destiny
healing, hand in hand
provincial blessing in disguise
amend soiled plight with bold tongues
true words echoing hope

two, lost
both found
dead inside, no more
found home, heart to heart
dream with sleepless nights
awake, together

together

Oh, why each morning is like a bright looking glass
And my night's like a theater without a curtain?
Tell me why an overnight seems like a new day
That when I can't see you, life seems so uncertain?

Each moment that I cannot see you, my dearest
Even your shadow is always enough for me
My heart always smile like that of an angel's beam
Brought by this precious love only I could see.

Though I couldn't reach you with these frail arms and hands
I can still touch you, my dear, in my cherished dreams
My mind and my heart, they were strong, I'm not afraid
Only you and I, we can get through the extremes.

In what kind of world does this heart couldn't see you
If there's only one image in these eyes of mine?
Our time is running fast and yet we cannot feel
When you're here beside me, I will always be fine.

If this world of ours is a waving temptation
It would still be a bright path when we truly care
Rhythm of our hearts will echo and resonate
A place is paradise where you'll always be there!

First draft.*


My mind is a garden
Overgrown.
Flowers give way to weeds.
I used to enter to relax,  

Now I leave it to.
My mind is a government
Overthrown.
Chaos reigns; more injustice

Now, in the wake of anarchy,
Than prior to revolution.
My mind is a page of my person
Overturned.

I change. Gardens become
Woods. Cities pastures.
Poets dead people.  
My mind is a garden
Overgrown.

my throat is a forest fire,
a burning map that never leads to
'the depths of virginia'

your hands are made of water,
icy cold and haunting and
I don't know what else to say except
"please"

I sometimes think that we should have a history book
rewritten with our names, because I'll be ******* if
we are not rewarded for the way we forget about our past

I WONDER IF WHAT WE TALK ABOUT AFTER MIDNIGHT
HAS ANY IMPACT ON THE WAY YOUR HEART BEATS AND IF
IT DOES IS IT WATERED DOWN BECAUSE OF BEFORE
AND I WANT TO KNOW IF MY WORDS HAVE THE SAME
EFFECT ON YOU AS YOURS ON ME AND I WANT TO SWIM
in the James River and forget how to sway my limbs around to float

this is not a love poem
this is not an "I miss you, come back" poem
this is a confession
this is a love letter
written on the palms of my hands because I know
you'll never get over how badly they shake

maybe I'm confused or lovesick or homesick
for a home that can only be found inside of warm chests
but I needed to write this for someone, for myself

maybe my questions don't need answers,
maybe they just need to be heard.