I've lived all your lives.
I've felt all your joys and
suffered your pains.
My poet is empathy who
shares your shadows and
neighborhoods and *****
dishes and ******* and
broken hearts and promises
made among tangled webs
we navigate so poorly.

Boston. January. Temperature near zero.
  You had no heat. Naked under covers our
  breath smokes in passion not to be denied
  like a fire breathing dragon called Love.

Life isn't precious. It's comical.
It's a wonder the human race is
still here. We're addicted to any
thing that makes us high enough
to escape the dreary life we live.
We **** everything. We put ****
in our veins for a minute of peace.
We die to escape loneliness finally.

Love, hate, indifference don't
matter in this thing we live.
Passion moves mountains.
It can save hope we need
in these hopeless times.
We lose friends to what we
believe. We make new bonds
as we fight against this enemy.

The night is ending
   the light is bending
   into another day we  
   live as if we planned
   the whole **** thing
   all along but we know
   we're lost in riptides,
   swept up in tornadoes,
   we're dice tossed in a
   drunken frenzy crossed
   fingers and the house
   always wins. Hangovers
   are our mornings and
   a hair of the dog gets
   me to work on time for
   Friday donuts and smiles.

I gave you my heart but
    knew you couldn't keep it.
    I'm still expecting you to
    hold on to Love to a finish
    line that doesn't even exist.
    I set fire again and never look
    back. I smell the burning
    flesh. I hear familiar screams.
The burning flesh is mine alone.
The screams are in my head.

I'm 70 and still work the mines
to feed my soul and family.
It's all I have to hold onto.
My coal face is cracked like
the rocks we fight each day.
My friends are mostly dead
from black lung and cave ins.
I toast them with a shot
each night in my empty bed
and pray for death tomorrow.