They call him Captain
because although his old girl
is a row boat
he goes where
he orders himself to go,
and tends to his love
with the same effort
and care
as a full crew of
the descendants
of gods.

They call him Crazy
because he uses the moon
instead of a compass,
and reads poetry
instead of treasure maps.
Though a hermit he is,
he scrapes together
enough money to travel
and dream.
Otherwise he knows
how to survive
on intense, amorous affairs
and treats his women
like queens
using only a quill
and their bodies
for paper.
But he sails alone as if
more loyal to his boat than
a man to his wife.

They call him Spirit
because he comes and he goes,
pulling the high tide with him.
He writes on beaches
where the moon is brightest,
under clear skies and never
after sunrise.
He shrinks with the waves
and is never seen again
by the same individual.

Most often they call him Myth
and on desolate nights
he tells himself
that those who don't know the sea
intimately
lack faith.
Then he paints portraits
of the old, exhausted faces
of the stars
and speaks epic poems
to crustaceans as he boils
them alive
(if he isn't human
then he's cruel just like one).


All who know him forget his name,
and he tells them to
as they wave goodbye
and the sea ***** him
back into her arms,
against her beating breast.
Yet his is not a lonely existence,
not another soul is necessary
to keep him rowing.
It is as satisfying
as it is solitary,

because he calls himself poet,
and a poem is all he needs.

You know how you're down and out
on the river, three sheets to the wind,
doing some night casting, a little
moonlighting to pay off the bill,
and you decide, by god I'm tired
of drifting, I think I'll anchor here.

Me, I'm living on beer, boiled eggs,
and ruined mascara. Tonight,
I'll make enough to buy a roll of dimes
so she can play the box, so she can drop
them in the sawdust, on purpose
and lean over, oh me, oh my.

When you paint your walls
with nonsense, and the sky outside
reflects your feelings, sensations
tiring, discovering floors and no ceilings.

And the faceless poor man
doesn't want your tips
but your hand, he wants to try
standing, because he's tired of kneeling.

When you insure the beggar's
confidence with a dime, hoping
he will ask you to stay awhile, then
you see he's not the freak, you are.

It is your mind that is on trial,
the beggarman dying, you slowly
take up his cup, and begin the eternal
begging for just one single smile.

I have compared my love
to the lazy, the no good
and to crazy girls of the past,
to my first truck, to a spell,
a moth and a bottle, to the hell
bending moon, if you could tell,
and to a Captain - if not a ship,
and to ways you'll come to know
too soon, but I have never, ever
compared my love for you.

I could go on and on and on
But then I would stop.
Because I believe no one
Has the words,
Especially not I,
Not after the short time
I’ve been alive.

But what if I die?

I definitely wouldnt have
The words then.
Not a turn in my grave,
Not a thought in my brain.
I will have spent my
Living breath
Describing what I think
Death is like.
But by the time I am dead
I won’t know if I’m right.

I know what you’re thinking;
“She needs to unwind
No feelings lost
Yet no thoughts defined”

You’re right.

Please, don’t try and fix me
There’s a minute solution,
Bare with me,
Don’t bury me

with these beautiful complications,
Black flowers with white leaves
And red veins
Who says the sun
Can’t be neon-green?
The ocean will stay navy blue
And we will learn to appreciate
Ourselves, each other

Painting one another

Do you love it when I talk color?

The concrete walls
won't bind us
won’t speak to us
We have the will to kiss
But we don't.

Watch the glint in my eye
Become a glimmer.
In its reflection,
Watch yourself become an apple.
No, concrete walls
don't bind us to our fellow
**** sapiens sapiens,
and skyscrapers
don't portray the flora
and the fauna
of our generation,
yours and mine.

So if this comes down to nothing,
that's fine.
But take my hand.
Grab a paint brush,
carry this poem

with you or without you.
I no longer care about you
but for one last dance
I will cooperate.
I will find the words

for you.
I call myself nonchalant
yet I want more of you.