"Well, that just doesn't pluck my
                                                                heartstrings."
He said at the girl.
Those ruby lips pursed
and he wanted to part them roughly
                                                                with his tongue.
She flipped her honey hair
sending a wave of cigarette smoke
                                                               and expensive
                                                                                    perfume

filling his eyes
and his head
and his mouth
The urge to grab a handful
and push her to her knees
                                                               grew.

He grabbed her hand
bringing it gently to his lips
looking into her brown eyes, he

                                                             winked.

Smoldering reminders of fragrant release
Rattle my windows and doors
While delicate tendrils of thirsty lingering peace
Lie scattered splendidly upon the floors

Patient virtue gently ripples and plays
No fault is found to be
Me-thinks mendacious thoughts away
Shattering holds on me

Draw in close and smell peace smoldering here
Dishonesty, has flown away
Finding the thirst of lingering peace sincere
When virtue ripples and plays

Deliberate untruths can lock down windows
Shut close, every door
However, thirsty lingering peace remains a foe
Waiting patiently upon the floor

Your heart is my home
it holds me up
from the mud
(when it holds me)
and down to earth

When I hold you,
you float my heart
(you hold it then
when you smile)
out to orbit yours
there in infinity

"I've seen God," he says
They laugh

"Was he big?"
"Was he old?"
"How's his beard?"

"No, you don't understand,
I've seen God."

"Is he white?"
"Is he black?"
"Is he red?"
They all laugh

"No, you don't--"

"How's his hair?"
"How's he smell?"
"God is dead!"

And they cheer

What is you or me or anyone anymore?
To have no definition-
be us opinions, facts, or fairytales-
is to be no one;
or rather to be everyone
and who says what she is
or I am (by definition)
with a glance,
for her eyes are empty and cavernous
seeking solace in something she imagines
until she is stamped
to become no one
            someone
everyone;
until she is defined by this/that;
until she is who others say;
until then, she is not she,
but rather, "she"-one question:
Is it a choice?

The first word is thought,
But not the last.
Involuntary movements,
Involuntary thoughts,
Are all caused by the mind.
You may not want it,
But your mind does.
Your mind wants you to wake in the night
With a sudden jolt.
Your mind wants you to have to fight a thought
Out of your mind.
Or are you out of your mind?
Are you flying where your mind isn't?
Or are you in fear of death, in fear of wrath.
Your mind and your body are two different things.
And your mind is in control.

I live a shallow life.
No one is willing to submerge too deep.
I see them all around me…
Dancing on the sand,
Their skin hot from the sun,
& burning with romance.
I let them come and go as they please,
Stepping in my puddle by the sea,
Taking away a little at a time,
Leaving me alone…yet free.
I hear the others coming,
Rolling in so gently,
Each just a passerby
Speaking to me eloquently.
I see in the distance the whole that I should be,
But here I wait, unattached…
Just like a puddle by the sea.

It’s all right, zombie husband.
I didn’t like the dog.
Or the twins.
Seriously, all they did was cry.
It’s like, “shut up, already”,
You know?

Chatter, as I watch the snowdrops falling
It blends in from the street, the pavement, the everything but me
and the lonelier soles who walk their own ways in the path
Taking their own hands against the cold.

Distances there into and always with the twilight
Strings and biscuits in the dawn of the twice
Winds pass and monsoons sweep through
Often I watch them in the memories of you.

Cross the sidewalks, mirrors, delights
Christmas parties and silent enchantments
Invisible but dwelling in the darkness of the stars
So humbling in all the georgian opacity

I yearn for the lights of the morning essence
Dream of the warmth in the hearth of men
Assuming in vain the welcome of all night blankets
And grieve in the vacancy of the traveller's awe.

Who takes the broom of the closets past
Who walks the dawn and evening stars
Who fawns over the reflection of the moon
Who tells of my works in their brilliant cocoon?