My girl,
when I ****
you
I’m on top of the world.
I become unfurled—like a  
whale’s tail,
like a dolphin in a
sea of love,
your ***** fits me like
a glove.
They say doves mate for
life,
and swans die in
the spring,
you make my ****
sing, like yang ling or
whatever that panda’s
name was.
It’s love that  
makes the world go around,
and baby,
I found it.

With furrowed brow
and a soul full of
sorrow,
I trudge the
lonely road of
perdition.
Providence guides me
as I stumble and fall.
Not even *** or
chocolate
can save me now.

She is my unopened
present
my box of regrets,
the locked door;
the letter without
a stamp.

I'm a
flower without
soil
A fish on the
beach.
I'm a lame dog,
and the gray in
a beard.
I'm an
albatross on a
gray sky,
a ship lost
at sea.
I'm the unanswered
words...
Marry
me.

I'm lonely as a
dancing ghost in
empty Halls,
waltzing through
memories of a
Banquet set for
many, yet no one arrived.

I long for
her on winter nights
when Christmas is a lie.

On a day that was
fraught
with anxiety and anger,
I sailed on
to the
other side.
The two pens that
blew up in my hand
foreshadowed the
prolific writing
streak to come.
Six poems today,
a personal best.
Bukowski would be
proud.
He might even
wonder
How I did it without
******
***** and
cigarettes.

It was easy.
I had bluebirds for
lunch, and listened
to Vivaldi.
I Just let the telephone
ring
ring
ring

Evening sky reflects
on the glass lake.
The soldier of a
tree carries on
through the lonesome
night.
If we could only
see the dreams of
the fish,
far from the
frying pan.

Sometimes,
I catch
myself Swaying,
like there is
an eternal metronome
that my spirit
hears.
Or,
A song that my
soul must keep
time with.
It beats to the art
that surrounds me.

Such a delicate balance,
between the cactus and
the sun.
Between the dog and
the bone.

When they autopsied the
Tin Man, there were
irises and orchids and
Neruda poems where
his heart should have
been.

Love is an overused
word,
but an underused
gift.