I don't want to be a tortured writer,
I just want to write.
If it kills me
     that's the art.

No time for poetry
     but exactly what is?
Is the earth not poetry?
The wind on yr cheek
      not the meaning of existence?
The music you hear not the voice of god?
This love, at the very least, not
     a reason to wake up tomorrow?

I wish I could be with you when yr lonely
                Instead of far away
        and lonely myself

I sit awake with thoughts of lost sleep
the words do not come
but the thoughts like       mist
      feelings inexpressible

I can't sleep

No midnight epiphanies

Make love all day long
Make such love that none feel unloved
Make love with your speech
Make love with your thoughts
      and actions and with
      all effort and urgency
Make love with your body
and mind bent on one and on all

Is this the river at the end of the world?
Thoughts like these that
overwhelm my brain,
Apocalyptic poetry,
the words that end all time
that stretch            beyond all there is
inattempts at being everlasting.
     Truly all maps end
and that in the end words are
swallowed and destroyed
          No.