I have the 'flu and it's Wednesday morning and my bones are groaning,but am I moaning?
YESSSS..
it's what men do when they get the 'flu and the world as they knew it comes to an end.
Please send for the medic,make it quick 'cause I am sick and while you're about it can you make me some soup.

I dream with all the fervor of a hero
Which is to say that I die in all of my dreams
Fitting you being there
More fitting you not being here when I wake up in a fit and reach for you
Both silently telling me that all I'll ever be for you is a well written story
I'm sorry they can not all have a happy ending
I know you would like me better that way
But tell me Cinderella what's a happy ending if all you're ever drawing are straight lines
Tell me Snow White what is a happy ending when you already see it coming
Tell me Jasmine what is a prince if never a pauper
Tell me Sleeping Beauty why did my kiss not wake you
Were my lips chapped
Was I too eager
Did you find my heart impure
Well I'm sorry pretty little princess
My hands are soaked in dragon's blood
I have felt the bones of castle guards break between these fingers
Is it so hard to imagine that the champion who finally tore down your walls
Would have a little dirt beneath his nails
A broken rib
A hardened heart
It is with that, I kissed you
It is with that, you slept
It is with that, I returned home
And as it goes
And as it always goes
The next man came
Armour shined
Shield cleaned
Sword sheathed
His heart full of nothing but ambition and intention
And a little blood on the bottom of his shoe
And it is with that, he kissed you
It is with that, you awoke
Satisfied

My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.

He wants everything
to be new, for
life is now,
in the moment.

Talk of yesterday
irritates his mental state.
He seems to have no
memories, sour or sweet.

He pays attention,
observant, fixed and
focused on charm bracelet,
the sky, or her feet.

Notes, mementoes
seldom covered his table
for life is now,
living is the present.

No talk of tomorrow
nor discourse of history
for he might miss
the softness of her breath.

Who cares for yesterday
or sins that he had played,
excitement seems supreme,
he might make the same mistake today.

Recalling past life and loves
seems folly:
Notice the wind, the rain,
her walk, or her sway.

He wants every moment
to be new
so he may fall in love today
again, with her.

Standing in the darkened garage
I listen to the whistling winter air
And think of times so long ago
And of one who is not there

My Grand dad was a whistler
No matter what he did
Whether reading, sitting, standing still
Whistling is what he did

He told me once the secret was
To purse your lips and blow
It took me years to figure out
But the secret I now know

No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around

Chopin, List, John Lennon
It didn't matter one **** bit
He would whistle what was in his head
And I would listen and I'd sit

Grandad could make music
No matter where he was
His whistle made him special
At least, special to us

No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around

The wind sounds high and vicious
As I listen through the door
It's a sound Grandad made daily
It's a sound I hear no more

A simple act of moving air
Across one's lips is all
But Grandad could translate it
Into a wild birds call

No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around.

Don't bury children in suits
Let them wear their favorite clothes
Let them wear their favorite basketball jersey
The sweats from the college you can't stand
That **** sweatshirt that you can never get clean
The tire-tracked underwear
Let them wear it all
Let them wear the clothes you could never get them out of
The ones they slept in
Played in
Dreamed in
Just don't bury kids in suits
They're not going to a job interview
They aren't atoning for a lifetime of sins
They're going to the great playground in the sky
They need to be able to run around
Bury them in overalls
In the baseball hat with sweat stains
The pants with holes and grass on the their knees
The shoes with the souls that flap when they walk
Let them wear the straps that the Velcro keeps falling off of and you keep having to put it back on
Put it back on
Put them in the casket
And make them smile with your thumbs
They didn't do anything wrong
We did
We let them down
Don't punish them
Don't bury them in a suit
This is our last chance to do something right for them
Bury them with those candy necklaces they used to shoot across class at the girl they liked
Give them all their Halloween candy back
Fill the grave with hundreds of melting dilly bars
Slip them a ring pop
Please don't bury them in suits
Don't comb their hair
Leave the dirt under their finger nails
Don't fix their collar
Or shine their shoes
Let them wear their Victor Cruz jersey

And for those of us lucky enough to live in one of those small towns the whole world doesn't know how to pronounce yet
Lucky enough to not live in a dangerous city
Lucky enough to trust the locks on our front doors
To trust the bus driver
To trust our neighbors
One more cookie before bed.

The engine's warm now that we're finally off all the main streets,
and sitting in the polished seats of our smooth white metal stallion
we strolled down the slickened scenic highway, silhouetted by the sun beams turned silver
bouncing off the cold bold face of a spherical moon.
The radio licks its numbered teeth back and forth with its spike red tongue
as the knobs are turned to tune and turn up high to hear,
those greats croon
"don't worry babe, we'll be there soon".
My foot falls heavy like a rejected lover when we hit the strait aways
and the wind cant move my whop slick hair on this bright night
can't move it for a **** thing
even with the top down and the whole world spinning against us.
I race to stay within the nights dark complexion
watching out for the only man who can slow me down
pink faced clown lookin to shout "bookim"
"Bookim danno".
My hands wrap white knuckled around the steering wheel
and I chuckle at the frightened look that begins to build up in your gorgeous hazel eyes
when adrenaline filled i swing wide left
to pass the only other car
on this rickety two lane highway.
Back on our side of those magical golden lines
I reach over to settle your shaking thighs
and you grab my arm like it alone could save you.
I picture us
hydroplaning off into a deadly roll through that golden field of wheat
the last thing I would smell would be dirt, dew, fresh spring ground
I smile at the thought
whatever makes you feel better I say
and so you squeeze tighter.
I slip my hand down and off your leg,
up onto the dash
to find and twist the radio ****, blasting out that sweet silky serenade of sleep walking.
I look over and blow a kiss,
but the wind ***** it out the back before it ever reaches your loving lips
and with eyes back on the road I keep on till morning.
Till I can stop with you at sunrise,
and we can rest
and hold hands
and share lips
and tell empty promises, as day breaks on the horizon
and light floods over us
in this stolen drop top caddilac.

my love is building a building
around you,a frail slippery
house,a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginning

of your smile)a skilful uncouth
prison, a precise clumsy
prison(building thatandthis into Thus,
Around the reckless magic of your mouth)

my love is building a magic, a discrete
tower of magic and(as i guess)

when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall

crumble the mouth-flower fleet
He’ll not my tower,
                        laborious, casual

where the surrounded smile
                                hangs

                                          breathless