Your eyes drink of me,
Love makes them shine,
Your eyes that lean
So close to mine.

We have long been lovers,
We know the range
Of each other’s moods
And how they change;

But when we look
At each other so
Then we feel
How little we know;

The spirit eludes us,
Timid and free —
Can I ever know you
Or you know me?

Tick tock
Goes the clock,
As my life goes on and on.
Time passes.
Memories fade.
please don't go,
I want to hold on

I want to re-live every hour
Claim back every moment.
You,
My love,
My brave soldier,
Have gone and died alone  

And I want to to back,
Look you in the eye,
Hold your hand in mine
And say it'll be okay.
But I can't.
All I can do is think
And wish.
Wish you hadn't gone that way.

I'm tired of the stupidity that blinds my generation. I'm sick of coarse banter. I can't listen to your words. With all my strength, I block you out.

We are going through the motions of life like empty plays on a cold chess board. Knights and Kings and Queens. All asleep.

It's time to wake up. Lead lives with meaning. Rise up from the ashes in flames. Flames of hope and life.

(the phonograph’s voice like a keen spider skipping

quickly over patriotic swill.
The,negress,in the,rocker by the,curb,tipping

and tipping,the flocks of pigeons.  And the skil-

ful loneliness,and the rather fat
man in bluishsuspenders half-reading the
Evening Something
                      in the normal window.  and a cat.

A cat waiting for god knows makes me

wonder if i’m alive(eye pries,

not open.  Tail stirs.)  And the. fire-escapes—
the night. makes me wonder if,if i am
the face of a baby smeared with beautiful jam

or

  my invincible Nearness rapes

laughter from your preferable,eyes

There your body hung
And all you left was a note
And all it said was *I'm Fine.

So maybe he touched my soul
And claimed it was old
Stole it
With honest intent
To never return it to my body

So maybe he touched my hips
And sank his teeth into my lips
Ripped them
With honest intent
To never hear me speak

So maybe he drank my tears
And extracted every fear
Before walking
With honest intent
To leave me dehydrated

Heal thyself poet
let words be your salve
let loose your longing
set free your sadness

Let them run wildly
over salt-damp parchment
Let them wail at the moon
and weep silently in corners

Throw them to the wolves
that your pain may sustain them
For it has nourished you
long enough

Let it all go.
Let it wrench from your soul
with glorious abandon
Let it scream from your lungs
Let it bleed through your skin

It matters not that you are broken,
that your scattered pieces hold no form
Only that you are here.

So write, dear poet.
Heal thyself.

there are two types of girls,
or so I was told:
church girls and
bad girls, and my mother
said this with such finality it was
clear they were mutually exclusive.

of course,
you know this is
Not True;
you once characterized yourself as
"the type of 'church girl' to light a
blunt in the bathroom (just sayin)" and
that single quote says more about you than
all this fragile wording, this silica dust
heated and wrought into intricacies and
metaphor and conceit.
You
are far more than
a bad girl,
are far more than
a church girl,
will never be
my girl
and this is how it should be.
you are not
to be domesticated
a la Robin Thicke; you are
uncontrollable, your lust and
disdain for monogamy
twin hurricanes, destroying
New Orleans in a heartbeat and
rendering FEMA
impotent in the next.

there are two types of girls:
other girls, and
You.