Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning

"**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching

As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen

I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction

But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana

While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin

When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied

But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air

I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were

When I say I love you more,
I don't mean I love you more than you love me.
I mean I love you more than the bad days ahead of us,
I love you more than any fight we'll ever have.
I love you more than the distance between us,
I love you more than any obstacle that can try to come between us.
I love you most.

they say that love is special something that you share

it is there for everyone each and everywhere

keeps the world together helps the world to live

there within your heart there for you to give.


no matter what the creed no matter what the race

love is there for everyone each and every place

a very special thing that helps the world go round

there inside your heart love is always found

Poets are here
To write about the legacy of the people who inspired them, angered them and infatuated them
It’s a written history that people seem to ignore
Because just like in history class
They snore
Because they have no interest in the world around them
And that’s a highly unfortunate thing
I feel like poetry has gone that way
Hopefully we can breathe some life back into it again
Poets are meant to enjoyed
Day in and day out
Especially if i fall for another
That would be golden

I want to know what it means to be free
To grow up strong and start a family
I'd like a house somewhere deep in the trees
And a big warm bed for you to share with me
I want to play my part
I want to create art
I'd love to publish my words in a children's book, something parents might read to put their kids to sleep
I want to express myself without restraint
And I'd really like to do good without needing thanks

No
land **!
for you.

Doomed
expeditions,
oblivion,

Only
a wreck's
inevitability,

Yet
soggy,
dogged,

Your
floating
cheer,

Echoes
in childhoods
infinite,

At water's
origin, paper's
invention...