your birthday party.
crowds gathered in the lawn,
from the festivities
and more,
after the incident.

i'm told
that the piece
of hard candy
you choked on
dissolved before
help could arrive.

4 years old,
and the balloons
on your mailbox
seem more Haunting
than celebratory.

i haven't been writing.
and i do
and don't
know why.

i haven't been writing
because you
don't deserve it.

you uncaring masses.

cruel souls.

i haven't been writing
because art;
both others And
my own
ceases to carry much weight.

i haven't been writing
because you
who would love me
are the Same
who hate others.

or myself, also,
once you dug deeper
than your questions
veiled in superficiality.

i haven't been writing
because too many
dogs are dying

i haven't been writing
because i fear
i am fraud;
unable to recognize
my influences.

i haven't been writing
and i don't Know
whether it should
bother me
or not.

i chanced upon you
once before,
in the vaguest of ways.

and then again,
in much the same

there was a tenderness in your voice,
a softness to your Soul
that for reasons i have still yet
to understand
You chose to share with Me.

lying next to me,
i remember thinking
your stature so small to mine
and your Being so much more expansive.

your form, spilled across my own,
like an Ocean.
and i would think
any man mad,
who would
sail so quickly through
such placid waters.

surely, you would reach the lands
of another Shore
far too quickly.

and so there i laid,
terrified to move.
how could i?
you, who enveloped me
and demanded all of myself,
every flaw openly
laid bare.
you, who smiled at each,
so patiently.
i couldn't disturb you.
not yet.

i am not a great man.
i worry, and
i tend to read too much
into things.
i will come to annoy you,
either with my
overzealous Affection
with my insecurities.

either way.

you deserve to know,
all of This.
i have little to offer.
i will be neither a rich man,
or, a famous person.
but, these are the things
that i can attempt.
i lay my ethics in front of You
and bear myself
my honesty, and my dreams
smiles and
hushed Whispers
of things i would
dare not share.

you, who
does not look at
the impermanent flower
but, rather, are lost either
in your own mind
or in the Horizon.
you who would
not stop to
rest your weary mind, and
in the deepest parts
of myself i know.
you could not rest
with me, at least,
not as i wanted to rest
with you.

and i am not a perfect man.
i, who want so badly
to clutch every tumultuous thing
and hold it close
to my heart.
to be uprooted by every storm
and laugh as i
am carried by
the wind.
this, because it is life.
and so,
terrible as it may be
i, who am drawn by your
chaos and
am the same
terrible person
who would seek to
cage you, and
be burned only
by yourself.
i am not perfect.
but these are the
things i have
to offer.

one of these days
if all the loonies
and scientists
are actually right
the world does
then, for completely
unaltruistic, and
Selfish reasons
i want you
with Me.

for example
if say the zombies
DO come after
then on the day
that i finally
fuck up,
get caught
on that day,
i know you'll
shoot me.

or if
the aliens come,
team up with the
artificially intelligent
machines that,
we just had
to make
and the Earth becomes
xylot 3
and, our new xylotian
overlords just turn
out to be
not such nice
i'm pretty sure
you'll help lead
the resistance,
and frankly, if you
win, Well
i'd rather be
on your side.

and, the climate
very well
kill us all
i still think, though
that freezing
to death
would be better than the
at least,
then i could persuade
You into freezing close
to me.

i guess what
i'm trying to
say is
at the end of
it all
you know,
then you're
not such a
bad person to
have known.

running away from
i set out to find
the secret things that
the gods,
both beautiful,
and terrible,
created long before
i should chance to flee.
but, to see them,
i should think they
were created solely for myself.
soley, it would seem,
to bring me to you,
distance aside.

and what erudite things
that i have bore witness!

i saw the sun fall into the
lakes of the north,
and burn them wholly,
until their waters were orange and gold,
too intense to gaze at for long.
and i laughed because,
the gods had thought themselves
fashioners of some grand, beautiful
they didn't know that i had seen
your naked form,
traced my fingers along the alabaster
perfumed curves of your flesh,
and known that beauty superior.

i saw the places where
they shattered the earth,
and the walls of stone were
painted like something
you would paint
for me
when the words just
couldn't come to you
and you cried the colors
onto the soil.

i saw the fields
where oceans of sweet
grasses and Ancient sage
married one another and
the gods turned themselves
into the uncountable herds
of wild horses, a thousand colors
defying anything that should
seek to break their spirit.
but i had already bathed
in the crucible of your
passion, and seen you
battle Fiercely
for my love.

It's yours.

i saw the vast displacement,
the empty places
where the gods taught man
to destroy, and
to grow false crops
and distance himself
from nature.
but i have known things
far more sinister than
what cruel gods muster.
i, seeking to destroy myself,
had lost you, and,
having won that love again
seek to keep it as such.

i saw the great
steel bones to be warped and wrought
into grand cathedrals, so that
the gods might seek to
prove themselves Real to me,
unknowing that i couldn't
possibly think anything
of the sort.
not while the possibility remained
that you could ever die.

the melody
can change.

the beat
gets altered.

but in the end
i think i've heard
every Song.

they go like this:

you're lured in.
because you think,
just for a moment,
it's going to be

you listen intently.
you are in love,

(quite without noticing)

the poems,
once stagnant and,
flow again like
they haven't in

your fire,
thought extinguished,
will find itself
fanned into

and like a
decanter of
that most precious
of ambrosia;

you'll pour
yourself Out.
giving everything
to the song,
until you're


empty from;
unrequited Love,
and just
not being

but you'll keep listening.

the songs never
change themselves.
not really.
not to suite your needs,


someone may
come along and,
add a
to a
tired tune.

and you might think
that it's a different song.

for a while.

Next page