a new poem (words, words, words but another drug), bolt upright, uplight, reattach yourself to the liquid of the music,
soothe the irritation, slowdown the shaking hand,
give god or his creatures, the nocturnes and sonatas,
a chance to restore the pounding of the chest to a leveling
equanimity

to no avail, the sleep angels have fled from the
forest fires in the chest, and the helicopters must quench
with the commence of dropping clouds of wet words,
when, when will I be released from a life that has no
easements

words, words, words but another drug, a habit that gives
everything but a temporary state, every poem nothing but
another her, another lady puncture in my restless body,
another juncture, where all your choices are the way of
error

the high will last, shorter each one, but the track will exist
for all the time, a token of human foolishness, the more is
the inevitability of the ending, writ, drawn a little closer,
and comes with a hand written spongy-apology begging for
existing

in his notes, motes, dust mites of titles, single verses,
elegies, essays half written, passing thots claiming to
want to be wannabes, this appears and it's a perfect
ending

there is no security in poetry, only the unresolvable

man in his perfect certainty, never was, nevermore, n'ere will be never, and one poet walks a razor's edge, that is his three tenses struggling for mutual coexistence, one of
a calming beauty, a dark glory, a perfect closing, choosing
a final solution, a belief in relief, that simultaneously
engraves, erases, and
equates

another new poem fissures to the surface, and the palpable
is a magician's illusion, a trick, a feat of dismemberment,
an excise of a piece, a drink, a Tennessee whiskey of him,
an emission that never gains remission status, all this fakery,
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug),
excellent, worthless and self-
effacing

{|||}

3:48am-5:46am

Go to your profile!
pull down the pull down menu
under gender

holy still crazy!

nobody told me so many choices were available

my titillated imagination reeling at the nomenclature of
****** orientations...

don't know what most of them mean, no insult intended,
chalk it up to a case of gender tender confusion

she, interrupts:

shut down the poetry, its near to 4am,
get some badly needed sleep, ****,
you're a stll crazy
plain vanilla idiot!

light bulb goes off as the screen fades to black-
my gendersex is official, she-notarized:

I am a trans-plain-vanilla-idiot (with traces of caramel)

4:13am

p.s.  E - please add to the list

Delicious for eyes.
scribed inside mind
flows so divine
captivating rhyme
expands cells in time
Better than coffee I find.

My worst fear as a kid
Never was monsters under my bed
Because before I could even walk
I'd known monsters lived within us
Within me
...
It was waking up one day
And realizing the world
Had moved on without me,
Realizing the world
Had left me
As nothing more
Than a faceless void in the crowd
...
Now I'm stuck
Forever running
Trying to catch up with time
Alone
Lost
Scared out of my mind,
Wishing someone would
Just hold my hand
And tell me everything would be okay,
Except it won't..
It never will be
...
But you've cried your tears already
You've already mourned my loss
Because my guardian angel
Won't let me die
And now I'm back as a bigger burden
Than I could ever imagine..
A burden on you,
A burden on those closest to me
A burden on my parents
And my friends and family
Hell, I'm even a burden
On myself
...
How am I supposed to burden you
With truths I won't even admit to myself?
How am I supposed to tell you what's wrong
When nothing is right to begin with?
How am I supposed to fit so many unsaid words,
And so many unsaid feelings
Into a couple meaningless letters strung together?
How am I supposed to hold on to you
When we're living in different times?
Because everything and everyone around me
Is fast forwarding and moving in slow-motion
All at the same time.
Because I'm still suffering in the past
And you've moved on with the rest of the world.
Because everything has changed
And I'm nothing more than a heavy heart
And an empty soul...
Because I've turned into
My own worst fear
...
I'm trying to hold on to some hope
Not yet ready to disappear altogether
The hope I find in your smile
The hope I find in your laughter.
This hope I find because my most favorite thing
In the entire world besides music
Is making someone smile
And seeing you happy.
So maybe if I can do that
My meaningless rebirth
Would have been worthwhile
And yet
That's exactly why
I have to let you go
...
I'm nothing more than a freak
Who rose from the dead
Resurrecting more demons
That made home in my head
And you're someone
I'd give my whole life to..
My mistake wasn't loving you
It was not letting you go sooner
Because your only mistake was
Loving me more than I deserved.
...
      Because those risen from the dead
        Have no place with the living
         And they never will.

We never cracked the mysteries of Pittsburgh,
and Baltimore bled out inconveniently before

our eyes, another nervous snitch knifed outside
the corner convenience store in broad daylight.

Salt Lake City was too pure, too white,
theocracy carved into a wafer of snow.

We grew tired of watching Los Angeles
pleasure itself in the sun like a **** star,
interminably tan and vacuous.

And Chicago was too ******* cold.

So we settled here, where streets turn
the soles of our shoes to palimpsests

where every apartment elevator
offers a wall of infinite buttons

where grocery stores stock their shelves
with bottles and bottles of octopus ink

where neighbors open their curtains
and stand shimmering in moonlight

where weather mixes with nostalgia,
creating immutable, poetic forecasts

where water tastes like redemption
and the skyline rises like a chorus,

so much taller than the cities
we inhabited when we were

alive.

I lost my first
wedding ring
that summer

we floated
on inner tubes
coupled together,
drinking ice-cold
beer in the sun.

A flash of gold
and it was gone.

I lost the boots
my father wore
in Vietnam.

I lost the first
pocketknife
I ever owned.

I lost my mother.

I lost my way
in college once,
watching heavy snow
smother the foothills
and switchbacks,
watching mountain
birds turn wide circles
above rough canyons.

I lost track of time but
found my father’s gun.

Winter will always
sound like the whir
of a cylinder spun in
an unfurnished room.

His wife is as
assiduous as
a mother bird.

She keeps
the windows
clean with rags
and buckets
of vinegar and
steaming water.

What happens here.

He sweeps
the ceiling
and ponders
the meaning
of the word
perspicacity.

There are
mornings
spent fussing
over underused
demitasse sets.

What happens here.

There are
afternoons
side-by-side
on the front
porch glider,

watching clouds
attenuate across
a porcelain sky.

What happens here.

The smallest
sounds never
fail to surprise
them.

How sparrows fold
like feathered paper
below rectangles
of polished air.

*What happens here,
happens over there.

The weather only makes it worse.
Cicadas sounding off at dusk.
The flowers blooming in reverse.

Your hand in mine.
Pour yourself another drink:
bourbon, *******.
Her hand in mine.

Our backyard has gone black,
the summer’s vestigial fireflies
devoured by limbs and leaves.

Lie on your back
and listen to me,
decode the blades
of grass that tickle
your ears and neck.

Love or silence.
Which is worse?

We pull at words
like dark threads,
composing curtains
for the windows
of a waiting hearse.