The bitter cold snarls and bares it’s teeth,
With a clenched jaw and fingers tightly wrapped
Around a secret but known hidden sheath.
Bravely but terribly gazing into the dark.
I’ve seen it day and seen it night.
Seen it in reflections of paintings and in men
Of a terrible manner; men of a hideous nature.
Seen it in questions asked of “where” and “when.”
Seen it brush against the tips of my fingers,
But too far off to grasp or possess.
Too far off to hear my whisper, “I beg you, yes.”

Seven rows of dreams deferred.
Seven more scolded and deterred.
Seven last better left unheard.

And so I’ve heard their cries
From time to time, and seen
Their looks; entertained their lies,
And they were always filled with mercy.
Kindness, sympathy, pity, and some shame,
And I would admit that that being that is best.
For if the scene were to reach its crescendo,
If questions were asked, answered and put to rest.
Then where would we go from there?
To a thousand simple thoughts,
A hint of passion, a little wit,
To the blackest crevice of a burrowed pit

Seven rows of dreams deferred.
Seven more scolded and deterred.
Seven last better left unheard.

Hopefully, soon, you will forget my name,
The tyranny of courteous chains, relinquished.
Broken, buried, but survived by shame,
And wouldnt that be what’s best?
And would you notice?
How I sink into defeat,
As a thousand thoughts replace a thousand more;
Of how you’ll see my little retreat.
And will you see past the space in my eyes?
Seven galaxies between you and me.
Filled with lines crossed, broken, and blurred,
Laid out neatly before us, word by word.

Seven rows of dreams deferred.
Seven more scolded and deterred.
Seven last better left unheard.

You were a stranger,
And I loved you before I knew you,
But it was a conditioned love.
For if you didn’t look like you did,
Or talk like you did,
Or think like you did,
I wouldn’t have loved you at all.
If you were nothing like how you were,
I would have never loved you.
So it was a conditioned love,
And you were passive about it all.
It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t help who you were.
But you never stopped it.
You let it fester,
And let me burn for you with
Love and lust until the two became one,
And it became all I was.
The air I breathed was for you.
So I burnt and you watched,
Or maybe you didn’t,
Maybe it was too terrible to see.
All I know is that you’re covered in my ashes,
And you look stunning in grey.

Charles you’re looking pale
And your fingers are curved
And clenched, and cold, and light
They feel like a chill around my throat
You should really get some rest
Or maybe drink some wine
You oppress me with your conversation
And I never know what to say when you’re like this
Hit me, Charles.
I want you to hit me.
Maybe one of us would feel something if you did
Maybe we could live a little
Because this isn’t life, Charles
This is Hell
And you started the fire
And I hold the keys to every room

Around street corners,
On dimly lit sidewalks,
She’ll come back to you.

As a burnt cigarette drops at your feet,
And you let out your last warm gasp of nicotine,
She’ll come back to you.

As you feel the cold on your bare cheeks,
And zip your sweater all the way up,
She’ll come back to you

Outside the liquor store on 8th street,
With a brown bag in one hand,
She’ll come back to you.

As she takes your other hand in hers,
And burns through you with her smile,
She’ll come back to you.

With warm brown eyes that feel like home,
And skin you could melt into at any second,
She’ll come back to you.

With her kiss,
And her sweet red lips,
She’ll come back to you.

When your head hits the pillow,
And your mind looks for its favorite story,
She’ll come back to you.

In the night.
In your dreams.
She’ll come back to you.

Jenny it’s getting dark and
             I should really be getting home,
                                                But I’m in New York City,
And I’m drunk,
And I don’t know what I should be doing with my hands but
I wish I could hold you in them.
Just so I’d know what to do with my hands.
And they wouldn’t feel so weighted,
        And there’d be something in my palms
To keep them from balling into fists.
         I wonder if you were here
If you’d even see me at all;
Now that I’m such a New Yorker.
          And do all these things I’d like to say I hate
But love.
        Irreverently.
                       Passionately.
                               Painfully.
I’m not not myself.
        On the contrary actually.
  I’ve just finally discovered the tools necessary
To make me who I’ve always been.
  I was not who I was.
And you were not who I thought you were.
Or maybe you were.
                     Who am I to say.
I’m just a man you never knew who is deeply, foolishly, and                   completely irresponsibly in love with you.
And who wishes you were here
So he could hold you
And keep his hands from balling into fists.

A Tequila Sunrise
at the Roadhouse.
A warm cup of coffee
with cinnamon sprinkled in.

I begin my dissertation on Ted Berrigans Sonnet 2.
A piece of my soul.
Although I am not 18 and my hands hardly shake anymore,
And I absolutely do not in fact know better.

The wind is angry tonight.
Conquering the dark with its horrible howls.
But it will not prevail against these walls,
That stand around this little Eden.

A bed, a candle, some stillness and calm;
I need nothing more than these things.
This is love—to be plain.
This is all love has ever been—to be plain.

Graceful.
Is what I strive for.
Graceful.
Is the feeling of holding Venus in my arms.

Row by row and row by row,
Marching too and then marching fro,
The Ancient saints, gone—gone—gone,
Into the sea’s most violent throws.

Brothers and sisters look on,
To the bare grey of the new dawn,
To however this sets them free.
Waves pull the pelican and swan,

Down into antiquity.
No tears cried, no lost sympathy.
Mary, the Lord is with thee.
Hail Mary, the Lord is with thee.