I think about it, *******,
And it leads me to this place.
Teeth all clenched and aching now,
From shouting in your face.

I told you, I ******* hate poetry.

But you poets listen, and then you don't.
You can't, you never will,
Touch me with your sentiments,
Dropped at my windowsill.

******* your muse,  her wells of eyes,
Just **** the ***** and be done.
Stiffen readers with the tale,
But don't count me as one.

Your Dulcinea's sweet and, well,
(She's better than the last…)
You're dying for a future now,
Not living in the past.

For sweet Art's sake, a nest of lies,
The poverty of self,
puts You up high and lost, in shadow,
and Pining, on the shelf.

So speak your mind now, if you must,
Aloud, to no avail.
Your nature blind of clever words,
Is always bound to fail.

This stupid book has nothing to offer me
In eight pages on stiff paper board.
The pictures are saccharine,
A fat headed boy
In colorful clothes
Shows us what he can do.
How could I see the value
In knowing this simple stuff?
I’m too far removed from my point in time
When “jump” and “run” were just sounds,
When jumping and running were just what they are,
Far removed from the labels we gave them.

So it comes to this: this stupid book
Among all of God’s ink-sodden paper,
Is an achievement of gold,
the height of literature,
a swell in my throat,
When you brought it to me
just today, and said,
“dada”
“read”

Do you see yourself there,
In this life that you've made?
Arcs traced, just so, by the motion of eyes?
The flicker as they search, the pause before they rest,
The metrics of biology, could they possibly tell?
Whose child was whose,
and what they were thinking?

I led her, at last, to the lip of the crater.
The smell and heat had been increasing as, each conversation,
We drew closer to it.

Apprehensive, I searched her eyes.
She saw it fully, my greed and my shame,
The cavernous need of my worst natures.
Flames singed her hair and the smell choked us both.
But, "still", she said, "be still..." and smiled into my face.

My friend, My friend, Insomniac,
You're ******* crazy.
You asked me to stay up late again,
like every other visit.
We smoked and smoked, We kept sleep at bay,
Held it off with caffeine,
but tempted it with liquor,
and you awoke me in single digits, low ones,
and wanted me to hear that song.
As much as I care for you, I realized something that night...
I'm no insomniac! Just a pedestrian, a faker!
Honestly believing that the sleep deprivation and
Not the drugs, not the alcohol, or the company,
Were actually killing me in the morning hours,
and, mumbling incoherently, I could not appreciate
The thing you wanted me to hear or see.
It might have been both.
So, yeah.
Sorry about that.
You're the best in my book and always will be.
Thanks for some great nights.

Hello again, raven, I’m glad that you’re here,
It’s been far too long since you came.
I missed your black feathers, your gravelly call,
Becomes music when speaking my name.
Lean close, my bird, and tell me a secret,
Any, if yours, will do.
I’m too long alone, and the world is too guarded,
I’m pinning my hopes all on you.

Lean again, bird, and tell me some more,
Black feathers cantilevered,
Away and Away.
Drink of me,
And Drink of you,
As we think all the night into day.