I barely went to school
And was baptized underneath a rain gutter
But I promise
Despite my upbringing
I will die a poet

Birds never studied music
Nature never rough drafted its deformations
Including me
I was born perfectly broken
With heart in throat
And head in clouds
And head in ****

And head

Head everywhere else but center
Hands anywhere but to myself

I dare you to stop pumping fuel
Into my mouth’s motor
Dare you to make fun of me
For my special education
For my short bus
******
My education was special

I learned to walk on two feet
When I should have had four
And I learned
How to stop myself from crying
When I found out not everyone is going to love me

I’ve learned the language
Of your laughter
And can translate your sighs
To mean anything
Right now they are the exhalation of ghosts
You no longer wish to hold on to

Let them go
Let go of your ghosts
And don’t settle for anything less
Than the silence of your soul
As it leaves you
Take this poem with you when you do
It is a love note
Sending Saint Peter home

All are welcome here

Especially you

I mean
Nobody’s perfect
Especially poets
I’m not perfect
Which is perfect
Because that means
I can die
A poet

She kicked me out of bed first thing in the morning
I didn’t even have time to make us breakfast
Not that she was hungry
She seemed satiated enough
So I left
and later met a friend for lunch

He was kicked out of bed first thing in the morning
He didn’t even have time to make his new lover breakfast
Not that he would have eaten
He seemed satiated enough
So my friend left
And he met me for lunch

Our attempts at fuckery find us
Not too far from one another
It is the distance of a coffee table in a diner
After we make our way to the wayside again

We both have water
And it washes our pallets clean
Of the liquor
And the cigarettes
And her mouth
And his mouth

Still lingering a little bit bitter
So we sip some more

These are sheets we leave behind so stained
That you hope the passion will stay
Until there are so many it doesn’t matter anymore
These one night stands will never feel any less *****

The spots of sweat and memory
That still won’t wash out
So many
They look like constellations
As the sheets hang to dry

I imagine they trace out your body
Not just your body
Any body

So generic now
It makes The Shroud of Turin
Look the aftermath of Babylon’s midnight bustle

These are the ways that love leaves you
Hanging you wet to dry
Stained and *****
And equally alone again

Forgive me for the way my mind wanders
I am still with you
I just didn’t want to *** yet

These are the ways my body leaves me
And then you
The morning after I accidentally told you I love you
Even though we just met

I have found and lost love
Enough times to secure my spot in hell by now
I mean
My fear of death his hell enough
To love you as much as I can

Forgive my neuroticism
As I leave again
Finding myself where my fuckery leaves me

At lunch
With a friend
Who is equally awkward
As we make way to the wayside again

Anticipation
Gets the best of me
Love has the sweetest of scents
Even a whiff boils my blood
In hope of a full meal
Just crumbs
And leftovers
That is all I encounter
You, woman
Taught me how to love
Never how to forget
And I'm hungry

Having been lost in eyes not meant to be found
Bound tightly emotions not meant to surround
The margin that fractions insaneness and Love
That outlines and contours the one I speak of

That borders the patterns defining her face
That playfully teases a careful retrace
That courses her body through each of her curves
And serves now as comfort for unsettled nerves

For now feeling lingers eager to embrace
The space it was once deemed unfit to encase
Through chance and through cryptical forces above
Love's passion retaliates through Destiny's shove

And the push with its knowledge finds in second round
Only loosely leashed are emotions unbound
And with unfirm restraint, and her tentative sighs
Surprised both are we to be lost in our eyes

like that feeling when the seasons change

or when you can remember how the places felt

around you

at that particular point in life

almost tasting the air.

and it hangs

it hangs so heavily in your stomach

suspended there

with no release.

it used to be such an eccentric feeling

and i wonder

if i’ll ever have that same feeling

walking through empty houses

down busy streets

in the car

or with someone else.

You’re as beautiful as words
Written on a piece of paper

Your body snakes like perfect cursive
Flowing a rhythm of intoxication towards me

Your lips speak like a dictionary
Teaching me the meaning of vocabulary

Your eyes shine with verses and history lessons
Like a book of archaic poetry demanding to be read


I want to drown in the words you write
I want to suffocate to the sound of your voice
I want to be constricted beneath your pen



*I want to be seen by you

How can I consider myself a poet?
I do not have a cat for a pet
(Instead I have a dog that thinks I’m her pet)

How can I call myself a poet?
I do not over indulge in alcohol
(Except the rarely occasional beer or whiskey)

How can I be a poet?
I do not consciously write with rhyme or rhythm in mind
(If it comes, it’s usually seldom or unintentional)

How can I be called a poet?
I don’t live in France nor have I ever been
(Though given the chance, I would leave in a heartbeat)

How can I be considered a poet?
I don’t dress in all black clothes and smoke Clove cigarettes
(I love flannel and jeans and smoke Camel or American Spirits)

                                                      ­       *How can I consider myself a poet?
                                                 (Maybe the fact that I ask this question makes me a poet?*)

we are here
rowing in gently near to the shore
and even now you can see
the peaks, mountains and the valleys
and the giant pines and willow
and the embracing peace, the pervasive quiet...
you see a lone figure there, enjoying a walk;
there is a little village there of huts
whose humble folk will serve you in all ways
though you will never meet them...
the guardians in the longhouse
there past the peaks
will see to all your needs
and you shall not want anything in creature comforts...
you shall be on land shortly and you will be escorted to the longhouse
and the guardians there will see to your walks
and to ensure the villagers do not meet you...
the guardians will speak of these things
and arrange these things...
yes, I know of that matter...and I can speak of it...
they will provide you with paper and ink and brushes...
but all you produce will be stored in the library there in the longhouse...
you may peruse, but you may not bring the works away...
even your works...all you create is no longer yours...
I hear you are not to leave the longhouse compounds unattended...
the guardians will speak to you of these matters...
there will be solitude
there will be respect
they will look to your every need
but as you know
none of your kind brought here
ever returns...
so then I wish you days of gentleness
and peace and quiet to your last days here...
we are come very near
and between the rocks there we shall stop and you shall disembark...