he said, summer time is when.
he said, summer is when he would change.

not serious enough at that moment.
perhaps,
lip service to those willing to listen.

a game he often in his life has played with himself.
it's not born of lies, but rather procrastination.

he said, those pictures i've been wanting to organize and put into an album.

he said, that poem in my head that i've been wanting to write.

announcing to himself loudly, come summer time, summer time is when i will.

midway through spring,
the cold winter still thawing,
his own bones still frozen.

he notices his health deteriorating, slowly but walking towards the finish line.

a cough that lingers, shortness of breath.
energy reserves on fumes, he unknowingly falls gravely ill.

he says once again to himself.
summer time,
come summer time i will see my doctor.

he says, come summer time i will organize those photos.

he says, come summer time i will write that poem.

and.....
summer time never comes for him.

I would love
to take back
the last
5 years
of my life
and
do them over.

But,
what would I
be looking for?

Perfect moments?

There are
no perfect moments
in life.

There are
only moments
that we can try
to make perfect.

Embrace
each sunrise
and sunset
because
none of them
will ever
be perfect.

This morning
after I had
      awaken,
           I noticed that a frost
             had developed outdoors
        and inside
           my heart.

I am
a cul de sac
traveling with
two hands
on the
wheel

you are
a
los angeles
freeway with
your hands
everywhere
but where
they
need be

I have,
swam in waters
like hers on
redundant occasions

i crave oceans,
not the puddles
she passes off
as oceans

her waves are
flat and
mundane....

i know.

Violently sensual, the jackal
in lustful greed
stalked his lover
in the air of ebon skies,
her legs as long as a gazelle.
the pack he left
to devour this beauty solo.
salivating are his jackal taste buds.
opportunistic and profoundly proficient is this jackal of the night.

Lust often
calls but,

it's 99.9%
of the
time left
with a
busy signal

i refuse
to answer
a call
from the
wild

i long
to hear
your seductive
lust over
my voicemail

tell me,
tell me
how lust
is love
and how
i am
"simply- robert palmer irresistible"

and how
white snake
asks in
song if,
"is this
love"

L
O
V
E

is a
haunting
melody that
I will
never commit
to song.

I want
to be
L
O
V
E
D
how the
Earth
L
O
V
E
S
the sun.

Without
the sun,
the Earth
in all of its
splendor
would exist
no more.


Poetry
is a
universal
L
O
V
E

I'll repeat,
a universal
L
O
V
E