Love and lust
Share a common goal
But attack with different strides.
One leaps,
One slithers,
Both plead,
Both gravel,
Neither lies,
Nor listens,
Yet both will fail.
Since love and lust both find
That there are no quick resolutions.
No absolute solutions.
No
Happy
Endings.
Only temporary fixes
To never-ending problems
Within themselves.

They search
And search,
And all that arises is
Desire for contempt.

Now I have to ask,
“Have you found the cure?”
“To what?” They scold.
“To the common cold,
The sickness of perceived loneliness
And fear of solitude,
The endless search
For that one individual
Who’ll fulfill all your needs
Whole-heartedly.”
“And what
Could be wrong
With that?”
“Delusions, False-hopes, and self-deception to start…
But don’t forget about your heart,
It loves you.
And it
Believes you.
And settled within the comforts of your skin
And the sound of your breathing,
It has faith in you.”

Tie a string to your finger,
So you can remember,
That love,
Is hard,
To come by.
It's hard to keep,
And even harder to ignore.

Let that string remain.
Let it get coarse and thin.
Let it dangle as you run.
Let it soak in the bath,
Taking up suds,
While you take off grime.

Untie.
Tie.
Untie.
Let it fall on the table.
Let your fat cat chase it.
Put it on the stove,
And watch it burn to nothing.

Take the ashes to the streets,
Keep them in your pocket as you run,
As they seep through the seems,
Feel the dust fall down your leg.
Let your skin absorb its memory,
Like graffiti pops on a blank wall,
Like a trail beaten into the earth remains,
Long after it's abandoned.
Like the stain of sauce on that fresh white shirt.

Like a string tied to your finger.
All of which can never be forgotten.
Should never be forgotten.

Do not deny that bow once sat,
Perched on your pinkie.
Do not ignore the future it implied,
Or your expectations.
And know that,
That red line,
Remains,
Even after the string is gone.
It never truly disappears.

Some people,
no matter what you give them,
still want the moon.

The bread,
the salt,
white meat and dark,
still hungry.

The marriage bed
and the cradle,
still empty arms.

You give them land,
their own earth under their feet,
still they take to the roads

And water: dig them the deepest well,
still it’s not deep enough
to drink the moon from.

Genial poets, pink-faced
earnest wits—
you have given the world
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.
Goodbye, goodbye,
I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,
neutral fellows, seers of every side.
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.


And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.


It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.


Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,
your loaves grow moldy,
a gulf has split
the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving
behind you the cherished
worms of your dispassion,
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle
for joy ...

Somewhere between
space
(and)
Gd
there's a star
made out of all the seconds you
cleared on the microwave
just before it was done because
you didn't want
to hear
it beep.
That is where time
goes when it's mad
at its parents, to play
old records and smoke
cheap cigarettes and
complain that its
best friend is dead.
My best friend/is dead/And although she would never sleep in the bed with me/And although she doesn't fit in the dollhouse anymore/I  dreamed she was gone the day before it happened/and dreamed she took a part of my life with her. That
is where
your thoughts go
the first time
you
don't miss someone as much as you did yesterday. I am not proud/that I am waiting/for tomorrow/you are that star/and I will sit on you and dangle my feet in the water/Meet me/in the Mediterranean/so I can kiss your toes goodbye.

Somewhere between
you
(and)
me
(and)
washing my hands in the morning,
I learned
how to lose things.

you had birds in your mouth and sunlight dripping from your eyelashes.
i promised i wouldn't speak if you wouldn't change faces twice an hour.
we made conversation under a tree and sleep-walked through your kitchen.
i couldn't stare for your poetry disguised as fingers, always moved your hands.

i opened your window and slid to the street, took a walk with the recycling.
my hands looked tired the next morning, and you wouldn't take no.
when the lights fell asleep, we ran for the boats and slipped into the water.
the moon smiled and pulled us apart, i never matched your shoes again.

If an easy rain
would make the rocks slippery,
he would hold my hand.