Why do I feel lost I do not know.
In middle of an ocean in a boat I cannot row.
I have been passing my days in slumber
did not care too much apart from hunger
for I know, time is what I did swallow

Lonely in this room I grab my pen
But I am no Lion, resting in his den
golden rays roar from behind the cloud
when the sun shall set, was always a doubt
for I know, love can never happen again

What does one do when they have no inspiration?
How does an artist stay an artist without a muse?
How does one lonely poet write her most beautiful piece yet without the heartbreak driving her nails?

How can a beauty stand alone,
No lover or wondering eye,
How can she love herself when no one is around to hold her up,
When she tears herself down?

When does inspiration strike?
Is it holding your lovers hand or avenging your fallen warrior?
Is it lying alone in a large unforgiving bed,
With the sounds of your sobs as your dying lullaby?

What is inspiration?
When does it strike?
Maybe at the end of this poem,
I'll find mine.

On a crazy high, I share whole of  myself with you, gladly
your melting heart I took over fully, do you feel it as a loss?
when love makes us so insane,  we go berserk like wild fire,
avaricious kids, now we are,  usurping each other in parts,
where will it all lead, my love, baffling it is, but elating all the same
would we be just the same ,or less; perhaps more than what before?

Scandalous is a person
A detail the dictionary forgot
They didn't have the joy of knowing you
They never will.

You left the same way you entered:
Inexplicably
Your enthusiasm caught us along
Spontaneously reckless

Always just around the corner
Cackling, head thrown back
Shocking me into hilarity
And now you're....
Elsewhere.

Oh goofy
Oh who's going to play beanie babies now?
The horses and ponies are missing from our field
The irises are blooming wild
Purple owls growl at me in the night time
All these displaced riders
Muttering "where is my niche?" over and over
As we spin
Fantails pecking at our insides.

The doorway was too small for the coffin
You would have laughed uproariously
We giggled, breaking the tension.
They removed the door,
Replacing it after.

Please shock me:
Sit up,
Hold my hand,
Something!
But you've turned to stone
And my doorway is too small
There's too much to let out
It all pushes at once
And nothing can get through
So I slowly remove my own hinges
And try to carry on.

At the shore of the ocean I saw
a penguine flapping it's wings climbing the wind,
left the sky shattered
Into pieces I couldn't breath.

Feathers fell from the sky and
lifted what was left behind.
I closed my eyes and continued living blind.

angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.