Take all of my belongings; pictures of
Beloved ones and grandmother's bible.
Just leave me a piece of paper and my
Will to describe the memory of my losses.

I take the pen for granted, as one does when
Leaving a bank in deeper debt.
One man's advertisement is another poet's
Tool.

I, Poet, would arise in the morning and praise
My tiny square of window, even with its
Iron bars.
I'd find poetry in prison wall profanity.

I love losing. Crying over love, over
Tragedies the size of full history book pages,
Timeless art lost in gallery fires, bad poetry
Gone viral and unpublished classics discarded.

I, Poet, laugh out loud in disbelief at sunsets
And other banalities.
Take spring rain showers and act at times
Like a hipster on ether; a hippie kissing his  

Last tab of acid with the heart of his tongue.
I care less than the unfree.
Drink water; wash my feet with wine    
And walk miles and miles of fire.

I, Poet.
Ink in my veins, fountains of blood on my
Pages. I write no diary, keep myself between
The lines.

The areas of white between the words.
The opposite of
Nothing. It is where gods,
Truths, and the poet's way of loving

A dual life lie. As
Unseen as
Unhidden, in
Broad daynight.

The energy of the Day
did not reflect that of the Night.

Come day we stay broading
and burning.
Our arms
and skinny legs
come clashing
tattered homes.
When smokers
and gaggers
came down from the Sun
the morning
will find them
hours later..

Come night
we close open
and creepy.
The stars keep of daytime
that was.
We share of our stories
and we sit
without moving,

we keepers
of not
what there was.