I've said it before,
I'll say it again.
Writing is *******
It's like coming.
When I haven't written anything for
awhile, it's like going
without *****.
I need it, I have to have it.
And when I'm writing a
poem, it's like ***.
Depending on the
piece, sometimes it's hard
and rough--*******
in sweat drenched bliss;
toes curling at the
point of ******.

With other poems
it's softer, easier.
It's her on top;
deep long kisses
caressing each other's cheeks,
looking into her eyes;
her long hair dancing on
my face to a slow  waltz.
Or something by Bach or Beethoven;
candles lit, incense burning

But more often than not,
it's me on top
pounding it in;
scratch marks on my back,
guttural moans, then
finally
******!
Sit back, smoke the
lonely cigarette
and wait for
the next ******* session.

I guess I shouldn't be
surprised.
In the
beginning, the women are
attracted to the light,
the writing.
But after a while,
they hate it.
They get jealous;
as if I had another
lover.
I suppose I do.
And when I'm in my stride
I don't give them the
attention that they crave and
desire.
When the words and
lines are flowing
the women seem so needy
so greedy.
I guess it's not fair that
I devote my heart to
writing--but truth be told,
they knew what they
were getting
themselves into.

In the country
on gentle silk
nights
I held you;
felt your satin
skin against mine;
smelled the lavender
in your hair.
And in the
morning,
I wanted
the sun to
melt and die
and
fall from the sky,
like a
blazing orb of
passion.

I lie in a bed in
the hospital that
we lay down
in together a
couple of years ago.
I held her.
She was tired after
work.
I can't go anywhere that
memories
don't haunt me;
chase me
like a rabid dog.
But,
this is too much.
I can see her,
smell her,
taste her.
And my
heart breaks when
I open
my eyes, and
face the loveless
sun
like a knife.

I dreamed I was
in an
old
dilapidated house.
It was like a cave with
red brick walls.
The paint was
peeling.
It smelled
like loneliness and
Ovulation.
I was with
a woman (maybe an ex.)
And
she cried (big turtle tears.)
And said,
"Don't hate me."  (She was leaving.)
I was drinking;
not drunk,
but liquid smooth.
For some reason, I was
going to
Chicago, to live on
the streets (it was my destiny, my plight.)
And I thought, **** that,
I don't want
to go to
Chicago (all that concrete and crime.)
So I sat there
and
watched the red
paint peel,
and
although the cave
was warm and moist,
it was unfit to
live in.
I said to myself,
I'll go to
the woods,
and live, write
**** small mammals
and eat them (thanks Thoreau.)
I ascended the
stairs to tell
the woman about
my epiphany.
(Beethoven's Ode to Joy was playing in my head.)
She was mock
sleeping, waiting.
I said,
"I'm going to the woods to live and write."
She pulled the
covers off,
exposing all that
impossible
magic,
and said,
"Make love to me
one
last time."
I was glad for
that
and
sad that she
was leaving,
ambivalent,
but
mostly
I was glad.

****!
I woke up.
No woods.
No ***.
Sometimes,
the pain is
so raw
it's like
food poisoning
or
like a little grey
squirrel biting at
my intestines.

Our love is
bigger than paper.
It's made of flesh and
bone and blood.
Words can't tear it apart.
Distance won't taint it.
My spirit groans
without you.
My soul feels empty
and alone.
I feel like a ghost wandering,
lost, like a blowing leaf.
Grief has become me.
I hunger for you.
Feed me.
I think of you there,
lonely and afraid.
I want to take
you in my arms and
hold you, until the
rain stops.

I was thinking about your
breath before you brush your teeth,
I love it.
It reminds me of simple, beautiful things,
like, streams flowing gently over
moss-covered rocks, and puppies at
about three weeks old, right before
they open their eyes, the way they
wiggle around with their ears pasted
to their heads, blind to the world.
Soft plump bellies full of
Mother's milk.  But I think most
of all, it reminds me of home,
a home with love and laughter,
and books and plants.
Classical music and sunlight-bending
through half-open windows.
It warms hearts and hands and
hours and days, that slip
away far too soon.
It reminds me of feathers and flight,
and babies--clocks ticking, pages turning,
and life--hard, fast, short, beautiful life.