She loveth me nay--
           The supermodel--
       Cause my pocket is lean.
          But I did apace tell
         Her as she's sashay-
Ing along that "I'm no James Dean:
That Hollywood icon and superstar,
Who was by his acting rich in dollar;
But that i'm a poet, writing poetry."
So contemn me not, sultry popsy.

At
the time
of a late day,
when the sky has
diluted colors of burnt sienna, lavender gray, ecru and blue bell
and it's clouds are a haze of purple that seem to transcend into the other worlds,
the specks of light below these black, black boulders, so-called mountains,
become dots of light to thy eyes behind the thick glass of the moving vehicle,
reflecting
all but
life.

I gave your voice to the sun
I tried to catch the stars in my hands
But they fell through and cut me
Sliced my fingers into two

There is nothing in the sky but your silence
Looks like the sun burned the sound of music away
And the stars sparkle on the floor from when they landed here
As for me I am nowhere
Nowhere

I tried to give your voice to the sun
But the sound of music burned away
And the stars, they fell one by one
Cut my hands away
Tried to give you to the sun

Our moon is incompatible
November's cold and grey
You have ***** fingernails
Whereas I try to wash the dirt away

And what I once thought was music
Was just the sound of a thousand shattering stars
And what I once thought was beautiful
Was merely a thousand glittering scar's

You are a silly little man-child
And I am just a little girl
But as for me, I am tired
Of the blunt beauty of this world

I am on Pluto dear
You are on Mars
We sold each other out honey
We destroyed the stars

On winter’s margin, see the small birds now
With half-forged memories come flocking home
To gardens famous for their charity.
The green globe’s broken; vines like tangled veins
Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.

With half a loaf, I am the prince of crumbs;
By snow’s down, the birds amassed will sing
Like children for their sire to walk abroad!
But what I love, is the gray stubborn hawk
Who floats alone beyond the frozen vines;
And what I dream of are the patient deer
Who stand on legs like reeds and drink that wind; -

They are what saves the world: who choose to grow
Thin to a starting point beyond this squalor.

we are mice.
we live in holes we scrape out of sheetrock.

we are cattails;
the tails of cats destined to be

chimney-sweeps when we die.

we are only people,
you and i;
only people destined to be

chimney-ashes when we die.