Oblation for love,
but it's unbearable consecration,
It’s not an altar
when it takes everything
you desired.

For chess’s dark or white piece—
why must it wound another’s peace?
For voids, no creation is needed;
emptiness speaks instead.

For sun’s warmth, so like life,
why must it burn the crescent moon at night?
Now imbalance grips too tight—
two halves never sealed in silence.
The dark embraced with resilience

But if I cannot place my faith in love,
how can I trust in myself?

But you can’t spell the word Love
without experiencing an L, pursing it.

As we adorn our hearts with L plates;
forever students in the school of love.

Every first kiss is like a cup of yeast;
raising our hopes for what is to come.

Yet, to yearn for more while offering
less in a relationship, is merely a recipe
for disappointment – a yeast infection.

There’s an imbalance when it comes to
your love life…

Love is a bit of comedy, so be rough with love.

He arranges her one way and then another,
in itchy dissatisfaction. She surrenders to the role
like a silent bystander, a plaything in the hands
of impatience - what does he want?

“Like this,” he says in a schoolteacher’s voice.

The imbalance of power, the almost impersonal
manipulations, the momentum toward surrender,
and then the shocking, primal desire - to meld -
like a gunshot in a canyon long thought empty.

I scream inside a body

That feels it is not mine.

I scream in soul.

I scream in mind.

I beg and weep for suffering to end.

For clarity to strike me.

I feel I am on a strange planet I do not yet recognize,

in a foreign land,

in a struggling body.

End it.

Please, if you must,

End it ALL.

my best poems came:

in months, days of desperation,
hours, moments of elation, it was the
always imbalance that just was, that
was/when the karma-was in-balance

my best poems always, always,
came accompanied by tears, many,
before, during, certainly after, even
twice, when a later returning stumble,
brought the sentries to open old gates

never, at any time, was a man with many
friends, reasons plenty, reasons mine,
it was an imbalance that just was, that
of the karma-when-in-balance, except,
the creative offsprings became children,
painful to raise, coming to visit occasionally

hear no quiet trumpet moaning, nor a violin
shed the human cries that only a man-made
instrument can be forgiven for being better at
than their own creators.  Much by choice, or
criminal laziness, all tinged by a fear so subtle,
don’t think anyone knew it existed, yet, always
humming “see the man running against the wind”

there you have it. no summing up necessitated,
because how the numbers add up, the total is
just the total, and know, you can finish this one,
the total is just a rose by any other name, it’s a
number that by definition was the of, the when,
“when an imbalanced karma-was-in-balance.”

Malevolent colors erupt on
Sullen fixtures of uprooted
Roots of eventide, clashing
Down below blue scraped minnows
Of perfect balance