sure,
the melody
can change.

and,
the beat
gets altered.

but in the end
i think i've heard
every Song.

they go like this:

you're lured in.
because you think,
just for a moment,
it's going to be
Different.

excitedly,
you listen intently.
and,
you are in love,
again.

(quite without noticing)

the poems,
once stagnant and,
Tepid
flow again like
they haven't in
years.

your fire,
thought extinguished,
will find itself
fanned into
conflagration.

and like a
decanter of
that most precious
of ambrosia;

you'll pour
yourself Out.
giving everything
to the song,
until you're
empty.

again.

empty from;
loneliness,
unrequited Love,
and just
not being
refilled.

but you'll keep listening.

the songs never
change themselves.
not really.
not to suite your needs,
anyway.

sure.

someone may
come along and,
add a
Variation
to a
tired tune.

and you might think
that it's a different song.

for a while.

i am not a great man.
i worry, and
i tend to read too much
into things.
i will come to annoy you,
either with my
overzealous Affection
or,
maybe,
with my insecurities.

either way.

you deserve to know,
all of This.
i have little to offer.
i will be neither a rich man,
or, a famous person.
but, these are the things
that i can attempt.
i lay my ethics in front of You
and bear myself
Vulnerable.
my honesty, and my dreams
hopes
smiles and
hushed Whispers
of things i would
dare not share.

you, who
does not look at
the impermanent flower
but, rather, are lost either
in your own mind
or in the Horizon.
you who would
not stop to
rest your weary mind, and
Heart.
in the deepest parts
of myself i know.
you could not rest
with me, at least,
not as i wanted to rest
with you.

and i am not a perfect man.
i, who want so badly
to clutch every tumultuous thing
and hold it close
to my heart.
to be uprooted by every storm
and laugh as i
am carried by
the wind.
this, because it is life.
and so,
terrible as it may be
i, who am drawn by your
chaos and
Fire,
am the same
terrible person
who would seek to
cage you, and
be burned only
by yourself.
i am not perfect.
but these are the
things i have
to offer.

Pancaked to concrete
Van broken down
114 degrees.

Can't eat.
Can't speak.


I am lifting California off my back.


A thousand windows
steaming,

my hand curving down them
turns sidewinder  through mojave
  no relief, heartless people, concrete on fire,

cleaning perceptions
for better views

brown leaves carpet everything

even on my days off
I feel ladder rope
carving my wounded hands

survival mode on high
selfish city stabbing me

everywhere I go
Babylon against me.

It's no surprise
but now it's time

to burn rubber
and get the **** outta here.

there’s a boy I love,
the boy doesn’t speak,
the boy is pale, a body full of bones.

his ****, limp
his eyes, weeping
his form, skeletal and twined.

i want to dissolve him into body wash,
clean my body with his.

there’s a boy,
a touch of 25 to his grace.
the boy kisses like he’s carving gold into cement.

he makes art out of willowing branches of thighs,
out of dove-necked wrists,
out of a sloped, vining neck.

there’s a boy,
mute; but as loud as roaring packs of waves.

there’s a boy i love,

even when i swore love was what I was most afraid of.