–When a boy thinks of a girl–

his cheeks don't go red,
nor do his pupils dilate
but his heart beats as fast
as a horse's gallop in race

His lips strongly tremble
in the midst of conversation
his legs that won't settle
due to headstrong infatuation

her beauty overwhelms him
her cold hand warms his heart
her gaze,  like Medusa's
a romantic work of art

his thoughts full of appreciation
for whatever form she may have
a wonderful mem'ry,  imagination
a thought that can't be grasped

his thoughts he can't express
his mouth he cannot open
his words he can't confess
but his heart, ť was always broken

but all this is not really
'bout when a boy thinks of a girl
because in these words you can tell
that he had always loved her.

women say they want a sensitive man but they mock me when i sit at the piano crying for hours holding a lighthearted paper candle and a smile tucked in between my lips

they say they want a hard working man with ***** fingernails but
they claw at me if i turn a sun-browned shoulder against them in bed

they say they would love a cultured man but they cringe when i kiss them with lips tasting of whiskey & cigar smoke or touch them with fingers gentle as soft old paper

they say they dig the cold but they huddle in blankets when i stay up all night dancing naked across the lawn listening to joni mitchell in january

they say they want their own sugar space but turn sour when i linger and wake up dreaming of becoming an astronaut

they say they're comfortable with my past imperfections but it's my fault when i have a nightmare about being strung out on the perfume of another woman

they want a man who can write a song but they struggle when i anchor a poem to their delicate ankles and fill their empty rooms with shamefully broken pencils

they love my beautiful tattoos and piercings but shake me when i spend days wrapped inside a coral shell singing a lullaby

they want the idea of a man they've read about in books but won't tolerate me when i read them the atrocities in the sunday paper under the lampshade of an oak tree

women say they'll take me as i am but get lonely when i wander for a week and come home buried in the scent of a rock and roll bar

they say they make friends easily, like me, but can't stand to come home to talking & laughing cynical & drunk in a house full of strangers

they want a quiet man who loves them like the stars but scream when i learn to fly at the mercy of the weather & can't be captured

they want to live naughty with the thick musk of a man but act bewildered when they're caught soaking wet and weak in the knees

women say they love men with a tolerance but get jealous when i'm dizzy drunk at dawn on cheap tequila and the memory of my mother

they want a man who lives inside a corridor of words but hate me when they realize artful compliments are only cages of pretty lies

they're helpless for a man with grace but hate me when i'm pitiful and clumsy in the dark after blowing out candles and closing windows in the middle of june

they say they'll only fall in love with a lover of music but audibly cough when i hush them as Coltrane makes dazzling sodium fall across my face

they all wish for a man with careful eyes
but mine are blue and empty in the end
& it gets lonely
so i will no longer carry a song for them in my heart
like a trail-weary cowboy
no lust
no memory
no guilt
no cups
no whistles
or jewels in my vulnerable shadow

Your words tease me
And they play fantasies in my head
It's 11 o'clock and I should be asleep
But instead I'm laying here
Thinking of your passion
And the intensity of what you want me to do
Things only for me to hear
Take control baby
I'm all yours

What is living
If our eyes don't gleam with excitement
If laughter isn't constantly escaping
If we never make mistakes
If we don't tan in the summer
Or have to wash dirt off of our feet
From those long walks in the woods

What is living*
If we are constantly worried about our sizes
If money is always being counted
If we always are hiding behind technology
If the only thing we fill our bodies with
is alcohol
Or drugs because depression is the only color we see


When did living become something that we have to be told how to do?

You're not
worth my
poetry