I've seen too many quiet nights;
no conversation,
no wine to drink to us,
no explanations.
I compete with the Game of Thrones
for your attention.
I lose. The king still dies.
Dragons fly. Same old story.
I lie here reading Pablo
till I weep.
I want to say I love you. But I don't.
Say it, I mean. I want to think
you love me, too.
But you don't. Say it.
Let's have that conversation.
Dragons don't fly.
It's true.

r ~ 5/23/14

I missed my revolution.
What's a boy to do?
Don a balaclava for jaysus?
Smoke a fat havana?
Think I'll buy me a beret.
Brush up on mi español.
Grow a fumanchu.
Move fifty years down south.
Find me a spanish speaking babe
to dance the dance in a red dress
shouting viva la vida all night long
till the sun comes up
and roosters crow
at hungry dogs
in a dusty street.

r ~ 5/24/14

Before your eyes fill
with fading,
come rest them here.
Let my shoulders bear
your burden;
let me absorb your tears.
Give this day a rest;
your wounded heart
is weary.
Close your tired eyes;
you've done your best.
Close your tired eyes,
and let me do the rest.

r ~ 5/16/14

What do you say to a child in pain
when nothing can ease the burn,
          the hole,
the enveloping wave
          of darkness?

Words are not a chain
to fastly anchor
          one's soul,
to cling, to save,
          to harness.

Time is the only healing rain
to calm the churn,
          make whole,
to fill the vase,
          drown the sharpness.

And love. Mountains and oceans of love.
This is all I have to give.
My words are not enough.

5/15/14

Searching for a book of matches,
I came across one of your poems
from 1993. It wasn't written on a
matchbook; no.  It was written on
a page torn right from my heart.

The line about how a blind man
helped you to see that words hold
more love than truth still burns my
eyes.  Seems you were right; and
you were wrong, too. The ink was
no longer as blue as your eyes
that day when we last held hands.
That day you penned these words
to my heart. That very day; our last.

Your poetry used to make me smile,
or laugh, or curse your soul for writing
words that I could never seem to find.
This poem was your best; your last.

The ink has faded and ran  in places
from all these years of tears shed and
long dried. More tears would do no good. 
I can hardly read these faded lines. You still
would not be here to kiss them away,
to tell me that everything is going to be
alright; no.

r ~ 5/8/14