There’s a nasty stain on the carpet
A yard from the door,
Dark orange of a shade
I once used to adore.

I’ve bleached and soaked the relentless spot
Till my hands and knees bit,
I’ve covered it with rugs,
But my mind still wont remit.

Curse the careless way I ate that fruit!
I cry into the smudge.
Each time I walk inside,
This brand relights my grudge.

Maybe over time I’ll learn to note it less,
A spark more than a fire.
Till then I guess I stare,
At this mandarin expired.

the truest tragedy
of all poetry
is the fallacy
that every line you write
must be saddening.
irony is the counterculture of poetry.
i write death
to the community
and without a breath
the work is granted validity.
i write life
to the people
and without strife
my work is deemed feeble.

a poem is not a feeling
it's a moment.
there is no emotion
there is no reeling
it's not hopeless
it's not devotion
it's not healing.

your poem is now.

Tangerine and honey drip in equal measure on the finely woven silk that lightly covers you.

As my tongue takes its pleasure I can barely discern where the silk stops and your skin begins.

The sound of your sighs and a rise in temperature tells me I've found a sweet spot.

A soft spot, goose flesh and shivers, not just yours but my own.

Had I known such joys could awaken, I would have mistakenly spilled the honey long ago.

It starts like a slow leak in the roof,  
a drop here and there, a stain on the ceiling,  
but after a while the whole room is damp.  
The world, once so sharp, begins to soften-  
the faces blur, and the names slip away like  
sand through a sieve, and even the clock  
on the wall seems unsure of itself.  
  
The future, of course, keeps going,  
marching on like an indifferent parade,  
while the past grows quieter, like a radio  
that you never quite manage to turn off.  
You might remember something-
or not-and the line between now and then  
becomes a faint smudge on the horizon.  
  
And then, just as you think you've lost  
your grip on everything, the circle gathers  
and weeps, not knowing whether it is for you  
or for themselves,  
for the person you were or the person  
who is still sitting there, somewhere,  
but has left the room.

Am I going,
Insane?
No I cant be,
That's quite impossible,
There's no way,
None whatsoever,
Why would I be,
Going mad?

Could it be that,
I'm starting to crave things,
Like your touch,
Upon my skin,
Your voice inside my head,
Your lips hugging mine,
But all these things,
Why?
What's making it all,
Irresistible?

Is it maybe?
That it's been,
So very long since,
Romance and I have been,
Locked in a room together,
Seven minutes of heaven,
At the very least,
Of course I crave,
The whole night.
Oh no,
Have I found it,
The reason why,
I've been craving it all.

Where are you hiding,
Why must you hide,
I thought we were,
Well we were,
Close,
Obviously not now,
Well now I know that,
Until we agree,
Romance will continue to,
Drive me mad.

Today is jade,
cloudy,
with a chance of tears

Touch
I want it so much
Electric
Ecstatic
Attachment automatic

As soon as it begins
My head, it swirls, it swims
Intimacy together
Attached not tethered

A hand to hold
A leg to touch
A hug, a kiss
I long so much

The soma
The body
My Nadis, not naughty
It’s healthy, not snotty
Even if she a shawty

We are social creatures
Not a bug, it’s a feature
I’m not a leech or a lecher
Touch is holy; I’m a preacher
A reacher
Let me lead her
On a path under the bleachers

A gentle caress
More, not less
I must confess
I want to undress
You from that sundress
That is unless
It causes duress

Because at the end of the day, I just want to play
To dance, to sway
To lay in golden glimpses of ego eclipses
To live on the edge of ellipsis...

If our lips touch then I may combust
A price worth paying for your trust
To let me in, to let me hold you
Is more special than I ever told you

My paint swells with blisters
these white walls whimper
tears create
a vision
a pattern
paintings on the canvas.
But no matter what the poet’s might say
not all pain is beauty to the eye
and mine
blisters and burns and cracks
like my bedroom walls in my childhood house.
No matter if you paint me over and over
or place a rug over carpet stains
or add a frame when you redecorate
building a collage on the wall over time
my paint will still blister.