look at all these people
playing at life's game
i'd like to think i'm better
yet I am just the same -
writing a listless poem
this one without a name
a spew of nothingness
i hope sticks to your brain

no, i don't do this for me
this poem is for you
and perhaps if you felt the same
you'd be this way too.
writing poems while alone
feeding the human zoo
a mind ablank and empty
i'm just enjoying the view

i found the puzzle that you crafted
tucked inside it's little box
with all the scattered pieces,
with all the scattered thoughts.

I fumble for every shard,
I recover them preciously,
bit by bit -
I place them gently, specially.
to expose the entire picture
i guess you're gone, it's true.
our memories run and flicker
I realize that it’s you.

god, it hurts to look at-
this unfinished mess of art
and to know you’ll never carve
another piece.
at least I have a beating heart.

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

I don't ask if it's over
because I don't want it to be,
but I had to think about asking
so it already is.