poison coursing through my veins,
parting ways in my brain,
separating me from my own mind,
i flock to what’s left and she waits.

i can’t remember where she slipped in,
more so when she slid out,
and how it got to the point now
where my drink is flooding me
with anticipation.

some knowing, unknown in its right,
the idea wasn’t here just a night ago,
but now it won’t leave,
it waits, just as she does.

and once this moves into motion,
the ground will tremble.
with such force, such intensity,
and i will show her the way,
what i mean, how i pursue it myself,
as she does, as we had,
and now cannot.

i’ll show her the dead tissue,
hanging from my shoulders,
how i have to lug it around
and one day, will unload.

[prose poem]

          I never noticed how mine these hands are. There, glossy, rinsed clean. Do I want to move my fingers? They will. All of them, they will.
Underneath the water's gloss I see the lines; some ragged and some fine, some smaller and some smaller than the small.
          Though I am no author of what I own, I can see how precious is His gift– and it's been here all this time.
I don't need too look too far. Even for clothes or something to dine. Though I am content with those, I've had, here,
          these hands of mine.

What does it take
For a man to bury his dreams
Behind the garage with his gone pets?

Was it responsibility and maturity
To know that the dreams of a child
Weren't obtainable for a man anymore?

Was it because too many people
Said it couldn't be done
The doubt that seeded in
Just added up to lost time
And now there just wasn't enough time?

What does it take
For a man to finally bury his dreams?
Shovel in hand, a cigarette rests in his lips
As he says goodbye
To the dreams he had as a child