she lies on the bed facing me
the curve of her hips
giving shape to the
blankets

her bare shoulder and arm are
bent at a gentle angle
as she lightly runs her
fingers
through my hair
her tattoos a vibrant
splash
of color on her alabaster skin

half lidded eyes take me in
and she sighs, a Mona Lisa
smile
on her lips

A million thoughts run through my
mind, my manic mind,
while she caresses me in complacent
bliss

How did I end up here
with this woman
with her perfect peace contrasting my
inferior and harmful
psychosis -
my constant battle with myself
and the universe

How can she love me
a man
who screams in defiance
at the tempest
while she spreads her
arms wide
and turns her face into the
rain and glories in it

My thoughts swirl
and clash
with the outward serenity
of the bedroom

And this is normal for me

The surprise comes when,
in a single moment
of clarity,
in between one manic thought
and the next,
I sigh with her
release the knot in my chest -
say “**** it” and
kiss her eyelids

I join her in this
perfect
moment of contentment

even as she wonders at my
sudden exclamation

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
I still shave
And later scratch the burn atop
My, “apple.”

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
I wake up. I go to work.
I hate copy-machine jams.
And I hate my boss.

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
In China, poets often drink.
I drink,
Therefore I’m in China.

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
Which doesn’t excuse,
It creates my, “excuse,”
At the least, to wander.

And I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
If I weren’t, I’d never sleep;
I’d never live, never dream,
And’d never know you.

Trembling hands
Hands turn to ice
There's ice in bones
Present in my bones
But not in my heart
In my heart I try to find hope
Hope of tomorrow and
Hope for the future
The future without so many crutches
Crutches that I need now
Now is when I wish
I wasn't born into this