Dear Girl,
I do not know in which tense I love you
I could be in love you now, I could have loved you, or I will love you
But I do know this
That I do in fact love you very much
I do not know you yet, Or maybe I do
But every breath I draw is one I draw for you
Maybe your eyes are green, or blue, or brown
All I know is they are the most perfect eyes that I have seen or will see
Girl, I want to spend my whole life with you
It is a real shame that you could be anyone
No, I take it back
It is beautiful that you could be anyone
It gives me hope that each day I wake
Could be the day I meet you
Or it could be the day we fall in love
Well
Goodbye for now,
I will see you sometime

to define love.
You'll be baffled
bewildered & broken by the end.

The cynical ones
will laugh,
say it's dead,
overused and cliche.
Why try write what Whitman, Dickinson, Frost & Shakespeare
have already covered?

The romantic ones
will wax on for hours
describing inner & outer beauty
compared to anything that strikes their eye.
Why can't you see it's everywhere?

The hip ones
will scare you,
take a ****
& describe some detailed carnal fantasy
involving tapioca & a talking *****
named Pony.

Ask a lawyer,
they could tell you the legal definition.

Ask your parents,
they will tell you something trite about seeing it through.

Ask little kids
for an adorably wise response.

Ask a dog
as it's ******* your leg.

Ask a scientist,
they will describe the chemical reactions in the brain.

Ask a prisoner,
they will tell you it's something they miss.

But never ask a poet
to define love.
Your brain will hurt,
half your day gone
& you'll be left heart broken
by the end.

One light
engulfing a doorstep,
reaching out dim tendrils
that barely caress the grass.
All night.

Is it superstition,
keeping that light bulb burning?
Are you calling?
                             Wind scrapes bare branches together in the shadows
Are you searching?
                             Pale pink sky behind drizzling mist
Do you beckon a lost heart home?

Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
Dry bones of Moses painted on my button down shirt screaming,
“to be or not to be” is not an English word.
In the daze of the thoughts of Neurology, I saw a man kick a bucket full of Starbucks giftcards down the avenue street. He screamed in pain as he watched the bucket tumble and roll down the street, blessing every Bohemian with a slight cold.

Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
I dreamt about a land before man where the Oxygen that sprang from the pores of flowers
sang a sweet death. Where dishwashers are saints, for afterall, man will not be if not for food.
Where books are written not to be read, but for the sake of Orange trees that will grow in the future.
I once wore a poker face to a funeral and laughed at the man in the casket because the souls he had underneath him were two left feet.

*We all once had naked pictures of God on our nightstands but lost it after Einstein  
Lost the fried chicken war of 1812 to Isaac Newton.