No one wants to buy a poetry book
Of an unknown poetess
Who does she think she is?
Collecting words on pages
Words that are revealing white spaces
Pages that are meticulously numbered
No one wants to buy a poetry book
That appeared out of the blue
To claim its pages carries poems
Are they good enough?
Perhaps a line, or two...
No one wants to buy a poetry book
What would they find in it?
Dreams unfulfilled or pains that still bleed
No one wants to buy a poetry book
That grew like the freshest blade of grass
Fragile and hidden in the cruel moss
No one wants to buy...

You stepped onto the scene
and brought me the brightest dreams,
your entrance so essentially enchanting,
enhanced intelligence,
the anticipation within me mounting,
eager to express my affection to you,
to let your flesh lead me into paradise,
sing a thousand lullabies to me.

I felt your beating heart,
the tender tides of your life
synchronizing with mine,
the calming landscape
living in your existence,
how you touched me so exquisitely,
my lips careening in ecstasy,
hungering for your stream
of sweet completeness.

I wanted to be your dream,
brightening in a vivid light of sunshine,
listening to the dulcet sounds
of your voice,
to be nestled on your neck,
watching the summer scene gleam
like an array of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires,
my fingers gently rubbing
your strong, clean jawline
and charming chin,
finding delight
in the way that you breathe on me,
how your dreads hang low,
how you make me explode within.

"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor.
That's my dream. It's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering,
along the edge of a straight razor … and surviving."
–  Col. Kurtz, Apocalypse Now
~

Remember
the golden age, Wally ***?
And the songs
my mother taught me?

We sang about what was.
Or might never be.

Like permanency.
Distinction comes
out of stiff and frozen silences.
Take it with
a spoonful of disdain.
Take it in the eye.
Actors are like breakfast cereals.
They're obvious
and according to taste.
I stopped needing them
long ago.

Beautiful
Tallulah.
Beautiful,
"less to this than
meets the eye"
Tallulah,
dismiss me,
that I may be free
to find Tennessee.

Open windows
and closing doors.
Always a breeze,
but never a way out.
Right on cue
the cards shuffle.

Butter and cotton *****,
tricks of the trade.
I mumble to be heard.
I am legend
to disciples
of the Method.

I wear my friends to bed,
burn them like newspaper.
They call me "Bud"
—cigarettes at dawn
after devouring the night.
And now my song ebbs,
as the stylus hits the leadout groove.

Tomorrow, I'll be better.
Today, I'm just me.