whenever you stood
near that window
your sharp shoulder blades
filled the whole of everything
the sea
and fisherman's boats

the house overflowed
with your shadow.
like the archangel;
and the bright bud of the
evening stars danced there,
in your ears.

that window was
the gateway for all the world,
leading out towards
paradise,
that dear night
where every star was
in full bloom.

so there you stood;
your gaze transfixed
on the sunset.
you reminded me of
a helmsman
steering his ship;
which was our own dwelling.

in that warm blue twilight
of evening
Ahoy!
Away!
i was sailed into that stillness
of the milky way.

but now?
this ship has foundered.
it's rudder, now broken
and in the depths of
the ocean i am
drifting,
alone.

"tell me you love me"
she said.

"i love you"
i did.

it was there
on that beach that i knew
we'd never
make it out alive.

"we can't stay here"
almost pleading.

"just a little longer"
just a bit.

the gulls came
to check on
your well-being.

the fish sang
sad songs
(D#m)

you decided to leave.

i think part of me
stayed on that
beach.

it clings and
hangs.
god!
it's so
cloyingly
thick.

it smothers
and
Pervades,
like
a thick
pea soup.

this crushing
obliteration
that is
a sober
mind.

it is reminder
of longing and
loss.

i wish You were here.

whoever "You" happens to be.

Is this how Debussy felt ?

i can only sit
and stare.

it just hurts too much.

and there aren't words.

i dreamt of an open valley
cradled on either side by
a wood of Oak, and Pine,
and Cedar.

and it was there we had built
our house.
a circular affair, with basement
and half buried,
sodden roof.

there was a barn
and two fields.

the first, a sea of green oats,
whistling and waving
their extolations in gratitude.

the second, for us.
rows of vegetable, and fruit.
would you love these rough hands
if they tilled the earth for our children?

i will never offer you
the world,
or riches,
or lavish ornamentation.
i will not offer them because
i do not want them, myself.
perhaps i am simple man;
but in this dream

i was content

we were happy

i want you
in these, the
worst of ways

driven
mad,
and mad;
again.

won't you look at me
in this moment of passion ?
i want to see it all
and greedily consume it
to hold it selfishly against me.
the love, and tears, and
pain, and filth, and finality.
the worst of ways.

i want to break you
i want you to beg me,
quivering.
i want to know that most
beautiful of despair
and in that moment
be the sole simulacrum
held in your mind.
the worst of ways.

won't you envelop me gracefully,
and glistening with
such tender
woe?
won't you invite me
to the deepest
parts of self
and rejoice with collapse and release?
the worst of ways.

driven mad,
and mad;
Again.

it was done raining
by the time we were done.
you, looking at antiques
and myself, trying not to appear
too interested
or forward.

maybe i should have said so
in the train tunnel.

but there was
amelioration
to the unease.

excitedly,
we ventured to the glass blowing
store, and apart from
the beautiful artisanal works
sat a christmas cactus
in full Bloom.

having never seen it, myself
was wholly enraptured.
what divine prescience that i
should receive this gift
on this day
in all places.

soft pinks and whites
held aloft by the clamoring streets
of succulence.

maybe i should have said so
in the train tunnel.

this vicious cycle
this spiral towards Gehenna
i am all together too
many things,
again,
at once.

it's on nights like this
that i can write line's like

"because you are not here
then let fall what stars may"

without judging myself
(too) Harshly.

or

"spill your gorgeous hair
over my waist and
look
at me tenderly"

is it cowardice, or respect, that i
should act so ?

but i am left with
but precious little option
save to write lines like these
on Nights like this.

i do not Love you any more.

although i did once.

fiercly.

and, i find it humorous
that this is how things
should be.

i do not Love you any more.
and, this will be the last
that i will ever Write
about you.

i do not Love you any more,
because i cannot
remember
what loving you was like.

i do not Care what
odd number of
other men come to
visit your doorstep.

or love you
or you them.

i do not Love you any more,
because where once was
Chopin
and his etudes
now
there is Prokofiev.

i do not Love you any more,
because i am in love with
another;
and she portends
a future.

i do not Love you any more,
because before now
i am not sure i knew
what love was.

not really.

and maybe that's
all the more sad.

she is fire!

she smolders and ponders
and consumes me, unthinking.

such a complex burn.

it rages on the outside,
keeping me warm
and sending delicate tendrils
into the aether.
red and orange wisps
that wound and remind.

it blazes on the inside.
cascading, rolling, volcanic
laughter
and
self-immolation.

and i,
this clumsy, arrogant
wooden toy soldier
will happily
and without consternation
fuel this fire
with pieces of himself.

i will feed each
delicate thought
both untouched
and untamed.

burn from yourself
the past
and make for us
a new day !

oh unique purity!

oh scorched Terra!

you chase tempestuous thought
from stormy mind.

and in return
i will keep
your cast shadows at bay,

and list them by name
so that i may know them all

intimately.

i am a man in love!

and oh what magnitude!

what vainglory!

what violence!

what brightness!

this love is a journey through
the harsh black sea.
still, reflected motes
of moribund starlight.

it is a chamber without air
and sharp grasses.

it is war and thunder!

it is two bodies,
entwined,
altogether ruined
by sweetness.

and so kiss by kiss
i seek infinity.
to cloak you
in that same night sky.

your kingdom
in all of it's rivers
and tiny villages.
streams that sing
of narrow valleys
and blood colored carnation.

my love!

we have found one another!

you found me thirsty,
having drank the wine
and honeyed milks
and bitter spirits.

i found you wounded,
your world taking
small pieces
and giving nothing.

together we are healing and quenched.

your body
slick with sweat
wedged into mine
is finality.

these sinews and tendon
wrapped into mine, and
i cannot tell where i end
and you begin.

it is nights like this,
when you aren't here that
you emerge from the shadows
and swallow
everything.

like time,
or horizon
or infinite
or the sea.

everything.

everything.

and, on our ship
made of flowers
we are mad
and drunk
and i am a man in love.

i am so many things.

but this is so you may hear me.

sometimes,
my words are thin.
delicate, and wan, and
meager.

and i watch these words
drift to you
like jasmine perfumed
mediterranean breeze,
or flotsam
across a ships bow.

and sometimes they clamor,
and climb,
and strangle me,
like clumsy ivy
and nest in the base
of my mind.

yet they're Never
enough.

but still, i tax them.
the arduous and vexing,
the demanding and stressful
ever insufficient vocabulary.

your love is wine, spilled.
it stains me and
permeates the soil.
and if that wine
be mine own blood
then that love is my sword.

it stains me.

it stains me.

and sometimes you will hear
words that are not Mine.

cruel and jealous.

spiteful and poor.

and in these moments
you will wear my verses,
like a talisman against them.

this is about a woman.

how does one even put into words
the sense of it all ?

she was the song upon hearing
that changes one's life.

her smiles breaks your Heart
not from sadness;
but the ice that held it together in
permafrost had melted.

and she shines !

she floats around the house
and
my heart,
speaking of nothing
and meaning Everything

she was here.

her scent lingers on it all
and my heart is stained.
pieces of her float in the air
like Dandelion into my coffee
and soul

i traced her form and
buried my face into her hair
while we were complete
and i knew what Home was

she can alleviate the world's hurt
when she strides atop you and holds yours face.
her hair is sand on a hot beach
and it cascades down, burning
but there-in lies safety.

and her eyes
sparkle
when she looks into yours.
they're emerald seas just off the shore
when you can see the sand through
the water.

and she's hungry
and impatient
she wants the future and your love
and fiercely buries herself into your chest.

her skin is kissed by the Sun
warm velvet and tender hands
and yearning curves
and traces of myself.

she takes pieces of me
and carries them with her
when she leaves.
she carries them in the quiet places,
close to her heart.

and i give them freely
these little pieces
but they make her shine
and i could Live
off that love

one of these days
in a world not of my own
i will cast off my doubts
and search for Us
a new land

one of these days
in a world not of my own
i will slice my hands
on grasses made of steel
by neatly gathering hay
to thatch the roof

one of these days
in a world not of my own
i will break my back
as i stack the walls high
and turn stone into Gold

one of these days
in a world not of my own
i will find a thousand kitemakers
to craft a thousand black kites
to celebrate this house

one of these days
in a world not of my own
my bones will chill
as august draws near
but have nothing to wear

one of these days
in a world not of my own
i will clad myself in leaves
someone! lend me a sleeve!
i must clothe the ones i love
in the one shirt that i own

one of these days
in a world not of my own
i will dress in thorny vines
that i have picked
deep within the mountains
This,
to let you know i am here.

one of these days
in a world not of my own
the full blood moon rises
and Smiles like Mocking Deity
it is a herald
of the distance between

and on that day
in a world that i have made my own
broken,bleeding,cold and enraptured by love
i beg you to visit
and i will ask the clouds
to hide the moon
if only for a short while.

plume and pistol.
a fitting end
to folly.

i'm falling in love again.
or maybe
rediscovering that Capability
within myself.

i'm falling in love again.
with life, and all of it's
idiosyncrasy.

i'm falling in love again.
with people who are
Ghosts.
percieved wisps of persona.
what ethereal Pedestals i put them upon!

i'm falling in love again.
with the way you look into my eyes.
but  cataracts of reality squander.

i'm falling in love again.
with the struggle of man.
to endure unrequited affections,
and quiet moments of Vulnerability.

i'm falling in love again.
with the prospects of loving again.

first, you gotta stop writing for a few years.
a good dance with Depression
never Hurt anyone.

during this time you're
getting four hours of sleep,
only to sleep till six.
living in squalor,
**** both
literal and otherwise.
trying to get your ulcers
fixed
while drinking yourself to death.

you won't be able to hold a job down
but you'll tell her
and Yourself
that you're trying your best.
so you'll sell ****
to make ends meet.
and you'll take the pills
that they give you because
Doctors say it stops suicide.

and so with whatever Narcissism
you can muster you
Hang On.
using people and drugs and
yourself. wringing it all Dry
like a spent rag.

you lie and tell her you love her
as you *******
into your whale of a girlfriend
because that's all you think
you Deserve.

maybe it was ?

but now you're moving
to a new city
maybe a new you.
you know it's not to run away
from yourself
this time.

maybe it's to make Something.

and i,
being the broken
toy soldier.
a book
with cracked spine,
still wait.

someone
must have
some glue.

your birthday party.
sirens.
crowds gathered in the lawn,
both
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
lately.

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
fashion.

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.
Vast!
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
or,
maybe,
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
Vulnerable.
my honesty, and my dreams
hopes
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
Heart.
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
Fire,
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
And,
the world does
end,
then, for completely
unaltruistic, and
Selfish reasons
i want you
there
with Me.

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

or if
the aliens come,
and,
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
guys
then,
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
may
very well
**** us all
i still think, though
that freezing
to death
would be better than the
opposite.
at least,
then i could persuade
You into freezing close
to me.

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

running away from
Myself
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
Scene
but,
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
subjugate.
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.

sure,
the melody
can change.

and,
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
Different.

excitedly,
you listen intently.
and,
you are in love,
again.

(quite without noticing)

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

your fire,
thought extinguished,
will find itself
fanned into
conflagration.

and like a
decanter of
that most precious
of ambrosia;

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

again.

empty from;
loneliness,
unrequited Love,
and just
not being
refilled.

but you'll keep listening.

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

sure.

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

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

for a while.

i'm not sure how to
go about writing
This piece.

i can tell you this.
it's about a girl.
one you should have known.
one that was
Almost Real.

i never like to look at her
(or photographs of her)
don't let me let you think
that she isn't
*******
beautiful.

she is.

it's just that.
that isn't why i Almost Love
an Almost Real girl.
she writes to me.
about her lover, and her art.
and her sadness.
and how the world just isn't fair.

and i do (love her).
and it isn't (fair).

her art is part of why i love her, though.
if my eyes are always a window
into my mother's soul
then her Art
is the window to mine.

she draws (mostly)
girls (mostly)
and their eyes are cast out
because she knows
there are things she sees
that she doesn't want to.

and they have no voices.
because hers is so soft.
and it makes me want to Scream!

"i could love you!
my fire would feed on yours!"

but my voice
is also soft.
and we all have our cages.

i don't think i'll ever tell her.

this heart
is a machine.
and as far as
conductors?

i make the worst
of these.

but i know
all it's inner
workings
perfectly.

the way your hair
falls to frame your face,
and caress your shoulders
the way i wish to.

the soft arch
of your brow,
like gates.

your eyes,
a more beautiful
reflection.

the gentle turn of
your nose
and
your high
round cheeks.

ah!
and your lips!
to feel the
heat
of your breath...

and to be
able to
brush your neck
with hungering
kisses.

the low Valley
between
your *******.
garden
of sweetest
flowers.

and surely,
to rest upon
your thighs;
those beautiful
Hands
entwined
in my hair.

and then tracing
the length of
your legs.

each

seperately.

kissing behind
your knees.
while i wonder
where these feet
have traveled.

tonight is strange.
you see,
i slept today
at a friend's house.
but now, cannot
sleep.

and when i say "slept"
i mean;
i laid there
in her blankets,
and thought of you.

and when i say
"thought of you"
i mean;
i wondered if
at that moment
you missed me too.

and when i say "wondered"
i mean;
i imagined your lips
against
my eyelids.

and when i say "against"
what i meant to say
was;
that i wished you
were held against
me.

and when i say "held"
i meant;
that i'll take your problems
and shoulder them
as My own.

but dear,
when i said
"problems"
what i meant to say
was that your
ink-stained fingernails
are god-crafted.

and by "ink"
you know
that i mean;
you've forever
left your mark
on me.

and by "mark"
i mean;
that you've drawn
in all the sides of
all the best poems.

and by "drawn"
i offer up;
that this is not
the first or last
time we fire one another
and scald the oceans.

tonight is strange,
indeed.

it's a good thing
You always know
what i'm really
trying to say.

i am not
all-together
much of anything,
really.

i am driven,
and lazy.
running water,
and ash,
baked into the earth.

i am both
undeserving,
and
the only one
worthy of
Love.

i am flotsam,
and bubbles,
and that coin
which sinks once
tossed Into the
fountain.

i am grass
heaped high !
to feed cattle.

and discarded
watermelon
seed.

but you !
you're the same.
and then,
not the same.

you're flourishing
flowers,
and wilting
autumnal Leaves.

both witness the scythe.

you are living inspiration,
and monument
to entropy.

and if you have veins
then let me be
the salt in those veins.

and if love dies,
then let it die in me,
first.

i couldn't stand
to see it
the other
way around.

Same.
Not Same.

if you are the mirror
then am i
not the frame?

but all of This:
the prose,
aggregate metaphor,
lonely night,
cold morning,
wine drunk alone,
the joy of Longing,

not
all-together
much of anything,
really.

except maybe;
to display.