i know he loves me
rough edges softened
by the warmth of his (embrace)
today—no roses bloom
but the scent of comfort lingers
in the (kitchen)
where he stirs remnants
of our lives

he is weary
yet still he moves
faithful, loyal, honest—
not traits you come by easily
these days
quiet strength in
chaos
i’m only human
and today
all i desire is the hush
of blankets
the gentle rhythm of our bodies entwined

i still want him
the man who has held my heart
through seasons of silence
in the way he bites
at my neck
the tender brush of his hands
i discover echoes of my worth
each touch—a reminder
a spark illuminating years
of feeling unseen

in the stillness
we find our refuge
two souls stitched together
in soft whispers
and shared breaths
creating a sanctuary
where love is enough
to fill the empty spaces

February 14th 2025,
The yearly anniversary of he who failed to fall,
To the crushing hand of prosecution.
The day, a symbol of love,
Congratulations Mr. Douglass,
That's what we got.
Happy birthday to a spirit of liberty,
And cheers to equal freedoms.

This one goes out to
the rambling, gambling madman
from Aspen- the late great
Hunter S. Thompson.
My drinking has landed me
in prison for a short stint.
To occupy my time,
I read and write,
it keeps my mind sharp
and the nursing homes at bay.
Also, a pen or a book in my
hand has the added benefit
of a signal to the other
inmates that I'm in my own
world, and I don't care to converse.

H.S.T's guerrilla approach to
writing, and his sharp gonzo wit
keep me laughing and thinking
on this carnival ride from hell.
And if I can laugh in prison,
I'm halfway home.
My mind will go where my
body can't.

Like Hunter, I'm a betting man who always
bets on the long shots.
So I'm putting a bundle on
me to pull out of this **** hole
and do something with my life.
** ** **, God Bless you, Doctor.
And as my old man used to say,
"They can **** us, but they
can't eat us."

Sometimes I think his scent lingers on my skin.

Scars impossible to erase no matter how hard I scrub.

His need for me always urgent.

Firm forceful hands always taking more then I want to give.

The secret is pain can be such pleasure..

Making love to monsters in the dark.

Eyes closed and gasping.

Physical need overwhelming,
and fireworks nowhere in sight.

Why I never heard music so tasteful,
With a woman so graceful.
Falling to sleep in her arms,
As the choirs gently serenade us.
Lip to lip as the lights dim,
Hand on her thigh, just how she likes it.
I'll never be able to love you the same,
Not after feeling you like this.

It turns out that
My room
Or what used to be my room
Still smells of me and my mom painting it on a Saturday afternoon
Even if it's empty

The spot on the wall
"Happiness: an endless chase"
I wrote at 11
Still lives hidden in the corner

Big tree
On my front yard
It is a beauty
And it brings back so many memories

Suddenly
I'm a little curly-haired toddler
Walking around it
Swinging from the branches
Trying to fly
Little did I know
I already was

Then I'm 7 years old
Playing hide and seek
Hiding behind it
Both from my friend trying to find me
And the cruel world

And finally I'm 12
Hugging it
Thanking it for all its done
Stroking it while the tears strock my cheeks
...
"Goodbye"
I whisper
Knowing that it may be a long time until I will be able to be comforted by it once more

The wind blows
"Goodbye"

Now I stand in front of it again
"Hello again, my friend
I've missed you"

They’d fallen in love
as some young people do—
so that lust might rationally increase.

Their bright, valentine-red-blood fairly beat for love.

It’s good that we can name a thing—
describe it and classify it, so it’s out there,
fact-like, in the flimsy, indefinite poetry-verse

It was a day for it, as the sun, that most followed star,
was a carnotite paintball-splotch against a sky stitched of turquoise
and the quality of the light was sentimentally beyond reproach.

Their gallant love seemed to cast a radiance too, a bright, collateral light, which was of greater reassurance than any by-rote, muttered words.

No one denied the ambition of their love, it was both a mess and a revelation. And no one could pretend the moment was ordinary, that the atoms that spun and gripped our world together weren’t woven yet more inseparable by their union.

The greatest, alas, may choose to bless or deny that such a miracle as love, lasts.
.
.
Songs for this:
Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers
You Can Have It All by Yo La Tengo

I love a blank canvas
how it focuses the eyes.

It’s black and white without
the usual vestige of messy
attention-grabbing details.

We’ll color those in later,
spending our creative time
whitewashing it with the precision
of our own nervous perfectionism.

We’ll strip away minimalism for cultural
resonance and focus the razor attention
of ‘couture’ obsession and wider comment.
.
.
Songs for this:
Just Exist by Eliza & The Delusionals
Groceries by Mallrat