Little Girl walk
-little age not
little shape.
Her hair black
-was blonde. Not
beauty queen blonde
dirt.
She think
she beautiful.
-maybe she is
inside.
No one sees
-she doesn't show.
Silent.
am I beautiful?

Today I am grateful for the kindred spirits who walk around with
contented smiles tracing their lips for no reason
other than the blue sky above
free from blemish save for the few whispish clouds
clinging to the fringes of its domed expanse.

Together we - my kindred spirits and me -
breath the free air.
Its crispness rushing past teeth
over tongue and down throat
into lungs drying out the slippery skin it brushes on the way.

The wind in our chests is fleeting, transient;
never overstaying its visit.
But its hurried exit doesn't leave us empty or sad
for the wind always returns,
never wanting to be parted too long
from the close proximity of our beating hearts.

Just above a waistband
sits a most peculiar thing.
The most common human blemish
whose lauds we oft forget to sing.
Some are small and dainty,
pushed neatly in like a dimple
in the desert of skin.
Others hemorrhage outward,
squishy and pale,
the extra flesh bloated
by strange and unnamed
****** juices.
Often adorned with a jewel or a stone,
the awkward interruption
of  the otherwise plain torso
is unconsciously celebrated,
for it serves us all
a greater purpose.
Reminding each person
from where he came.
The living proof that we are all connected,
at one point or another,
to someone else.

I don’t dream of adventurous romance or memorable moments
with people who are only important to me.
If those things happen
ok I guess
but that’s not my goal.
I want to see the world a changed place
and not feel shame for that desire.
My dreams are not bigger or more glamorous than yours,
they’re just different.

I don’t want change so I can be lauded.
I want change so we can all live equally
in a world where there are no heroes just everyone as we all are -
merely human.

Prizes, titles and crowns don’t come from the universe.
They come from confused humans
who hold others up above themselves.
We give our heroes plastic spoons and hoist them
to the ceiling with instructions to dig
hoping one day we might crawl up and over
to occupy the newly excavated negative space above them.
But our plan doesn't work;
the heroes become insubordinate,
refusing to make room and the rest of us are left
with the burden of carrying these people around on our backs.
Now the heroes have a free ride of it and the masses
struggle under their added weight.

We are all the same, equals:
carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen.
Skin.
Bones.
Flesh.

Who are you? and where did you come from?
I love you so much and yet I don't know your story.
We're proof, you and I,
that love comes out side of fully knowing.
How did we both end up here in this place together as we are?
What is it that draws two people together?
I won't claim to know.
I - the wizard of algorithm -
have yet to find a constant formula,
a consistent equation of explanation.
Your humor and cleverness plus my wit and fire
divided by our mutual sarcasm raised to the power of two.
The recipe of us:
a mathematical prescript with a solution of love and
a limit that does not exist.
More complex than what can be written on a page,
unbounded in potential by discrete definitions.
I don't need a proof and I don't need a story;
I love you, my friend,
to infinity and back again.

I write poems when I walk
which is problematic because
I merely compose in my head
then nothing is on paper and
my memories don’t have a
very good track record

I write poems when I walk so
I’m sure strangers who have
passed me by have thought
me to be the stranger one
because sometimes I say them
out loud matching the rhythm
of the syllables to my soles
taking their turns hitting the sidewalk

I write poems when I walk because my life
deserves to be composed in verse

I write poems when I walk and
find that the world has new
meaning when it’s dressed in
the exquisite beauty of words

I made space for you. Here
just under my collar bone and
between the gloopy lobes of lung.
I cracked open the bony sternum door,
reached in and mucked out the place that
I’ve spent my life filling with hopes and dreams.
When I pulled them out, my
hands came away covered in the
stinking rot of goals unfulfilled; my
wrists burned as the decaying poison of
unmet expectation ate away the flesh there.
I scrubbed the walls of my new empty spot
with the essence of despair and an infusion of apathy tinged
with a hint of resentment. Chemicals so corrosive
that the nerve endings burned
off leaving a sterile, unfeeling space.
I did all that for you.

You died while I was cleaning.
You had gone out, frustrated again
about how I never made time for us to spend
with just each other.
You slammed the door and even as my
hair blew back from my
face with the force of your anger,
I resolved to make a change. I had only just
finished disposing of my toxic waste when a
soft-sorry knock replaced your slam on the door.
At first I saw the gun on his hip, right next to the flashlight
and under the shade of a doughnut-filled muffin top.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Your heart - it’s dead.’ and then
went on to explain something about a bus and a busy
city street. I couldn’t be sure exactly what he said.
My mind was distracted by the glare of the bright, burning
sunset jumping off the badge on his chest
stabbing me in the eye and
the feeling of numb negative space hanging
off the front of my spine.