The numbers don’t match.
They really don’t work.
I sit and scratch
my head
till my scalp hurts.
I add up all the variables
subtracting what’s right
and I am still confused.
It keeps me up all night.

He came,
He was shown,
He liked,
They auctioned,
He paid,
She cried,
He took,
A hole to satiate his lust,
He used and used and used,
Tired, he threw,
Even the seeds he bore.

Is it possible to betray your self?

If I learn to write again,
I would put into detail how
your eyes turn to steel blue
whenever you ask me about
the future name of our kids
running with their bikes on
Wisteria Lane

I would put into detail how
your morning coffee has the
smell of the sandalwood table
my father gifted my mother on
their 36th anniversary

I would also put into detail how
on nights I cry while struggling to
put three words and a sentence
on crumpled paper, you’d be
there.

There to run your palm over my
soaked shirt and whisper that I will forever be
your favorite writer.

(despite the fact I haven’t written our
grocery lists in months... scratch that, years)

I would learn to write again
to see how your face scrunch up
at every word I misplace or
commas I forget.

If I ever learn to write again,
I would write again for you.

Wherefore art my purpose in life
I'm filled with passion, love, and fight
Bursting with spirit until I'm overcome
By social anxiety and a long line at the grocery store

I want to be good but I'm without determination
I've been taught leadership, sure
And I don't want to be a follower
But do I want to make others into followers?

Is it possible to do good and not be a hypocrite
To organize people for a purpose
Without taking advantage of them
Without rewarding their efforts fairly?

Verily I remain a thinker, a ponderer
And regrettably not a man of action
It must be a moral quandary that keeps me at home
Because I could never admit that it's only fear of failure

These         little       moments      that      always      bring
little          feelings    which        crave        her          sight
moments    which     bring           her        words      back
that            crave         her           voice         so           stirring
always        her         words          so      beguilingly  deceitful
bring         sight         back       stirring     deceitful   despair

through the streets and column cracks
culture weaves and summer smacks
sacred figures, holy shrine
monastery in grand design

cathedrals, convents, heaven’s stars
god of neptune, god of mars
doge’s palace, alley ways
gondolier on full display

winged lions on pastel breeze
cicada singing from the trees
pillar walk of saint mark's square
basilica in all its flare

crosses shade the carousel
a bridge of sigh that leads to hell
golden stairs on placid ridge
arches of rialto bridge

torcello! murano! grigio!
the countess rides the river poe!
sins of seven, fiery hides
poplars bank the levee side

black plague, attila the ***
eden formed before the sun
paradise above the marsh
high alter, gothic arch

middle age, religious wars
celestial fountains, marble floors
sculpted peacock, catholic faith
all is true the great god saith

I wake up
my arm
finds you not

only a pillow

you are not here

anymore

with the wind blowing my hair back
the plain brown,  not much to look at
the straight nose and long legs;  it looks
great on somebody,  anybody else

but not me

with the wind blowing my hair back
it steals the words from my lips,  lifts
them up into the sky;  it's a clear night
and though I'm dead,  I feel alive