this,  their-poem, emitting their call-sign,
those who once checked the box
of in love..a status of joyful revelation,
for all to see, all passerby’s, all witnesses
to the outstanding glowing skin,
the perms-frozen half smiles that
never are erased, you secret it not
so much,
for your body entire expels
the scent secreted of a world
in orbit
around
each other

then the unexplainable, threads go worn,
a slower tearing, one by one, till there
is not one, nary more any, you then
check the invisible box,
“not in a relationship”
and it feels like
a load has
been dropped onto you
from on high, flattened,

now cloaked in a demeanor
that cries out
they
put a load
right on me,
and you seek
excuses to recall ecstasy and

you start dancing to forget,
like a centrifugal whirlpool’s vortex,
whipping up the air surrounding

to heat a forgetting, till the until,
of collapsing shame offers up
arms to drown you, a relief offering,
and the words to “Yesterday”
are everywhere
reverberating


walking down the street
a somebody smiles to at, just,
for you,
without cause,
but a causal triggering
a singular event,

just a smile with edged up corners,
and suddenly you feet golightly,
and inexplicably inextricably
in the moment it is
all you can see,
and one starts to dance
to well
remember

and a poem
forms upon your silently moving
lips,
and a dance to remember
is finished,
starts up
a new one,
with similar familiar steps
a dance to believe  in~

and laugh when
you say your name

out loud

you!

are the poet of the way,
a new word choreographer

and there will be a way,
always another way…

June was a disastrous month, with no direction but home,
as if it, home, was magnetized, and every escape/avoidance
attempt was refuted, and the irrevocable demanded my time,
my presence, in the city, where all my troubles lay pus~festering
lesions,  yanking me from my refuge, my peace of mind tattered
with bacillus interruptus

She called June the month of clusterf—ck, accurate and uncharacteristically, unlike her, a violent, ***** epithet

but correct.

July, the month that the gods of Cesar jealously rule,
bring Les Surprises, and the pattern recommences and
the mind surgically thinks calm yet knows no peace,
and sleep is contaminated, the dreams violent and
repetitiously, ******… a sure sign of the tumult within…
the eerie and  the unstable interrupting my writing,
breathing and ever constant denial of the peace afforded by
successfully lying to myself…

a minor action bring flaming, flashing warning lights on
my human dashboard, seemingly unconnected, but perhaps
a single sensor has gone detective… for the uncorrelated
stability of this vehicle, my anti-skid system have been triggered and the dread check engine light is ominously continuously yellow…implying worse is yet to come, before the finality of…red

symbolism us everywhere; inescapable, unavoidable and
irrecoverable and perhaps, alas, the worst - irreconcilable!
all this is the slowest excoriation of excruciating…and it’s
everpresent, omnipresent, like an angered finger pointing
a constant thunderbolt of guilt, which points transfixedly
at me…with the sneers of thunder preceeding its electricity

last year, around this time, the heart was near to dare explode,
with no overt warning that was paid proper heed, now I pay
and pay but there is no specialist available to cure, let alone,
properly diagnose what’s ailing me…even though I know
exactly, I cannot openly confess the origins of My Malaise

I recover old poems, mine, that delve into the mysteries of
solace, and they should  offer comforting direction, but the
sticking place is strong within my chest and all topical
creams cannot penetrate sufficiently to offer relief, let
alone, let alone, let a l o n e, provide an effective curettage of
removal…

symbols come before my eyes in formulas I do not understand,
which renders them worse than useless, for if a formula cannot
begin or end with = sign, what good is it, what good am I,
and now post-reparation, my heart speaks to me volubly
with such troubled sadness, I am nearly and dangerous
close to being a being who is nearly *frightened unto death

Everyone has a favorite ex.



Everyone is the one who got away. I'm broken as all ****. I don't know how to let go. I keep starting new problems. I'm at my very core exactly the ***** my father was and accused me of being. I wish I wasn't this way

I wish
I wasn't
This way


But I've written more poems about you than anyone I've ever known. I crave you more than a cigarette. I can't help myself. Even when we're all together I give you the look. I use the name I called you in bed. I can't sit here and pretend you don't miss me. I can't sit and pretend you don't want to kiss me. To touch me one more time. No matter how long it's been and how far we've come and how much we love each other's significant other. Regardless of circumstance. If we could do it one more time. If we could play pretend and go back just for a night. I would pick you. You would pick me. No telling. No taksies backsies. We would.

I'm proud as **** of you. I'm glad I get to be here for this.
All I wanted was to be here for this

But I would be under you in a heartbeat if you asked
If you offered
If we spent a second alone.


I love you still
I miss you

i want to love myself
but i don't know how
drifting in and out
     between the reality and my delusions
trying to search for that vigor
that will to be alive—
to be excited of the sunrise
and feel calm
     soaking under the afternoon sun
and love the changing hues
     of the skies at dusk
and wish the moon a good night
     never fearing the dreams to come
then adore the peeking light at dawn
     reflecting the days waiting to be lived

but then it's gone
all that's left was a monotonous black
accompanied by a crippling silence
followed by the surge of doubts
     storming down my confidence
     its lightning striking
as i look into the mirror
     staring at my silhouette
     with its pieces shattering one by one
just as how, piece by piece
     i slipped into the pit
freefalling
and finally losing
     the will i tried so hard to keep
leaving me with nothing
but a void