My previous tendencies
so exhibitionistic
serve now to only
make me sick

From here on
I will raise the walls
of the house
before I detail
the basement

I am a poet
who cannot spell
I prefer to love words
with my lips, my tongue
the inflection in my voice

its not that I don't like
writing
the action of ink on paper
but sometimes I **** up
and I injure a strong
colorful
word with my pen
and the shame of this
is enough to keep me distraught
if only for a few moments

because I love words
all words
especially the vibrant ones

I love the soft curve
of their voluptuous vowels
and their sharp corners
consonant collarbones

I love the words
who's many meanings
swiss-army swap
them into sentences
where you would not
expect to find them

I love soft words
who hiss past teeth
with a susurrus
and I love long
complicated words
with edges that could
cut. you. right. open.
with vitriolic intent

I could have chosen
any one of dozens of
lovely
words to fill that space
but I chose one
that I could not spell

Maybe it wouldn't be so hard
if I didn't always write in pen
but I am a stubborn man
who finds it easier
to forgive a few misspellings
than to live with the knowledge
that all he has written
will someday smear

A single strand of cobweb
buffeted by the strong winds
passing between
the steel bars it bridges

A home, a trap, a project
abandoned
for a better location

If I were that spider
there would be a full web
built on this crumbling foundation

This is my something
for the day
I'd better make it
good enough

When these words are penned
back I'll crawl
to my warm, safe bed
once again

This is my something
for the day
I'd better make it
deep enough

Things I feel between
wake and sleep
must settle somewhere
here I choose

This is my something
for the day
I'd better make it
sharp enough

Validation earned
only through wit
"Look, I'm clever, see?"
give me love

This is my something
for the day
I'd better make it
true enough

No lies on this page
so I say
but do you believe
my quick tongue?

These are the nights
in which all that you said
becomes true
and all that you did
becomes justified

These are the nights
in which the lights in my mind
stay on
while the black of the night
***** the luminescence out of all else

These are the nights
in which the future
no longer exists
and the past
becomes all too tangible once again

These are the nights
in which my imagination
crucifies me time and time again
but the rising sun
brings no promise of salvation

forgive him father, for he
knows not what he is
much less what he does

These are the nights
in which he wishes
he didn't
in which he wishes
he wasn't

This stone called to me, some might say
I was walking past and saw the grain
Upon the stone, chiseled this inscription
"Gathered home", this piqued my interest

What home is this here plot of land?
It isn't fit but for a ghost
One cannot have a fam'ly here
However, together, they lie

And our reaper carries a scythe
Who says he doesn't bushel lives
The grass still long on this walled square
Possibly still, uncollected

Something is happening
within me                (within these bones)
the thing                                     (the beast)
that shakes
and moves
is reawakening