Subway rides seem slower
When you're in love with someone
Who loves you back.
I know, because I missed my
Stop coming home today.
See, I thought it would take longer,
But I was wrong.

I can't help but think that
If we lined up all those rides
Back and forth from home to home,
It would stretch farther than
Shakespeare's plays lined up
From comedy to tragedy to history.

(An order we're suited to.) And if
We were a play, we would have
Been deadly. Tickets would be
One by one, "Are you in love?"
Mostly no, but sometimes yes,
Then, "Lord, don't see this show.

It'll **** your kind, you know."
Because it-- because we would.
Because who wants to think that
"I love you" means
"Until I'm bored" or that
"Please don't leave" could ever be
Met with an expressionless face?

Sometimes I wonder if you took
All the romantic comedies this year
And played them in alphabetical
Order, would they be longer than
My messages on your machine?
(Or the ten seconds of your voice
Laughing in my tape recorder?)

The train rocks softly as I write this.
The noisy crush of people around me
Makes it hard to think, but nothing
(No matter what I try)
Makes it hard to remember.

Oh my darling, my prince
Of unworthy ventures,
Do not speak to me of love.

Do not speak to me
Of her claws and her venomous
Kisses. I do not care.
My ears are deaf to you
And your many death rattles.

Only, do not think I am
A glacier inside, that my
Cheerful face hides merciless
Ice. It is not so. Do not speak
To me of where you go
With her. Not because I don't care,
But because I already know.

In the way a wounded man
May plead, "do not speak
Of bullets," I entreat you:
Do not speak of love to me.

A captain who sailed in a
Deadly gale and hears of
Stronger winds may give up
His beloved sea. A boy who
Falls from one snapped branch
Fears even fallen trees. Please.

Do not speak of love to me.

When I want to write
And the words are churlish and
Sluggishly slow in coming -
And even when they come
They linger at the door-frame
And rub their soft cheeks
Against the painted grain -

I read in a special voice.
Sometimes it's the voice
Of my English teacher from
Junior class. We didn't get along,
But not a word passed her
Lips that wasn't as gilded and
Mellifluous as edible gold-leaf
On a chocolate-chili sundae.

Or the voice belongs to
Rives, who plucks meaning
Out of words like candy
Out of an Easter egg.
He savors every syllable
Like it's an annual treat
And lines them up neatly
In his throat like some kind
Of spoken-word songbird,

But the things I write are
Least likely to be read aloud
By Rives and my English teacher.
(And reading in their voices
Seems too proud.) So I pen
The last of the stragglers down
And clear the alien voices out
Of my own (often sore) throat.

I enjoy my words, wallow in
Phrases, and praise lines of
Alliteration about as often as
A soldier runs past shelter
Helter-skelter and takes his
Chances with unfriendly crosshairs.
My voice quavers, quivers, shakes,
And shivers when I read my work.

I find every letter and line
And nuance absurd, but
I keep myself in check. Editing is
A controlled demolition of
Punctuation and capitalization;
Sometimes the "submit"
Button is hard to hit after
Splaying one more page of
Myself into crisp computer print.

But I breathe and repeat
The words that are lodged
Under my ribcage like a
Stray bullet: "You are not
Superlative; you are not
Fantastic; you will not be
Famous; you will not be
Any better for a long time
And even then you may be
Terrible, unbearable, and
Infinitesimal,

But everyone is."

                                                            click

On cold-windowed nights after
A shy and unassuming rain
Has stumbled over slick fog
And brought the clouds to town,

The pine trees gossip over
Their new sky-bound neighbors
(And I didn't know that needles
Could rustle like voices)
Like dreary all-knowing mouths
Up on stilts - "Have you seen
That Cumulonimbus?
Who does he think he is?"

They know what clouds carry in:
The soothing dark after downpours,
(The shroud of water molecules that
Shields a sunburned world and
Reflects the cool pale shine of
Street lights over a drowsy town.)

They do not care. They are
Hard hearts in bark girdles.
They crack and creak
Sometimes, irked at their own
Swaying weight, and drip
Sly words to the heedless Earth,
Who needs no words
(Who is only dirt).

It's my work.
It's a certified Personal
Original,
So why is my name marked
As a misspelling -
And why are you
Changing my wording?

Do you know why
I almost cannot write?
Every word is a window,
And every line a bright light inside;
The ending of a sentence
Is a lifting of the blinds:
Anyone can see in.

The ink on the page
(The actors on the stage
Of my mind) are arranged
According to my direction.
(I call action,
And only I.)
But my name is a misspelling
And you change the wording.

Poetry is like electricity,
But without a switch,
And stronger;
Like lightning.
It strikes you, and suddenly
You're a pianist;
You can speak Swahili;
The color green tastes like
Starfruit (only you've never had it
So all you can think
Is, "Man, this forest is delicious!")

Poetry is a zap from nowhere.
It makes your hair stand on end;
It makes you half afraid and
Half eager. You start flying
Kites with keys and fixing the satellite
In storms because it's awful for
A second, but then
You're never the same.

I know.
I've been struck so many times
And each time, I've traded
Gibberish for English,
Sight for insight,
Words for love,
And love for words again.
I have heard voices bellowing
And crying
And laughing.
I have seen smoke and sunlight
And smelled sulfur and
Tasted honey and salt.

Maybe I am not "smart,"
Always leaping into danger,
But I can't think of a better way to die
Than  to be struck by poetry.

You say "Do you love me?"
You want "yes,"
But not love. You say
"I love love love you
soooo much!~"
But not forever,
Not even for long.
Wrong is not in your
Vocabulary for self-reference
And I'm not about to teach you
That "love" is as small as
A bird
On a cold day and as quiet
As the space an ever-stretching
Universe can fill by the
End of "forever."

It gets in -
In the cracks,
In the holes,
But it doesn't flow.
It doesn't drain
When you split apart.
Love is not a girl who can
Wrap herself around a new boy
After a good cry. Love is a softer
Message than candy and flowers,
Less than hanging on him for
Hours and dressing up
To undress later.

"Love" isn't a texted
Proclamation of desire.
It's not what you want.
You want "yes" and
"Like" and "Tomorrow is fine,
Let's go at six."
You want what you have
To be enough.

I have enough without
Fooling myself,
I have enough without your
Kind of help,
Your brand of "love."