No, you're wrong.

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

Particularly at lunch
in a laughing restaurant

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

And they are moved
by their own beauty

And they shed tears for it
in the back of the taxi home

I glimpse it now and then.  
Most times only in passing.

There are days.  
Bright sunny days,
when the warmth of the summer sun
permeates through my whole body.
It feels like the light on those days
brightens my entire existence.
I feel it then.

Rainy days
when the gloom from the cloudy sky
matches the sweet melancholy of my soul.
The peaceful sound of raindrops
the warm rumble of thunder
brilliant flashes of lightning.  
I feel it then.

I’ve felt in passing memories.
Memories of the joy of childhood.
Memories of my family and friends.  
Memories of the dreams I think I am loosing as I get older.

Sometimes I can smell it.
It’s the scent of my favorite food cooking
The smell of the perfume she wore when we first met.  
Or that electric smell that fills the air right after a spring storm.

It’s in the sound of a mothers voice.
The touch of the warm breeze on a starry night.
The sound of the ocean when I really need to relax.

I feel it when I notice natures beauty.
I see it pass between two lovers holding hands

It’s in a warm embrace,
a passionate kiss.
or just a knowing look
from someone who for an instant
sees the world exactly as I do.

American Haiku (6-6-6)
--A creation of my Brother, "Phoenix"--

I linger in your world.
Long enough to see it...
That love is not a hoax.

I began reading out of spark,
but this little thing has me growling
and I can’t help, but to feed
knee to head and crouching
cornered against walls of a busy cafe
where there are more jaws buzzing and even more capitol
in the money and these flies drone me out
and the words push me in
towards the heated center of feeling
if my heart were a room then it would have an open window because
the fuzzy thing about the lift is that it chooses my head
on top level
to the inclement of mood and allows no cumber
set hallowed and watching
where an angel has fallen,
superfluous in feather
not from grace or worry,
but from break on my lungs with
none of the bulk
and all of the beauty
I am rinsed,
sunken in
revert to push another sell
and the mouths stay open
because the chump will abide
by the cold fortune honey
caught short-changed
and pudgy
looking like the pulled skirt of mother with
curled hands in a toast of the coming season’s weather
and as day pours at fold lines,
the flies really make a killing
which can make a man take notice
of the birds,
and their singing.

Sometimes it feels like
you only care about what
you can take from me.

you began to speak impatiently.
it was my fault, listening without answering
anyone would be tired of my silence

but lately there haven't
been words for these moments
and when i hear your voice
i cant think what to say.
it's all these conflicting emotions,
i've been twisted up inside.

when the sound of your voice stops
the silence takes long strides towards us.
it settles in
casually, as if it belongs here
and i let it,
sit it down, and offer it tea

the look in your eyes as you wait for me
to speak
is my revenge,
petty as it may be, and my pride dwells somewhere
between my clenched teeth
and the back of my throat

babe lets crack open
a bottle of wine.
get so drunk i trace my body with my hands
and pretend they're yours.
i feel like dying tonight.
the stars are screaming
your name
shooting through me
like bullets.