functioning in beats of
rhythmic movements

5am is the best time for
f   r   a g    
               m   e    n  
                           t e   d
                              m   o    m  
                                    e   n  
                                              t        s
before              I                       rush
                                                            into life
to learn and be learned
maybe even                      teach myself
                watch me as I    
touch myself

today when asked what I would do with the rest of my life
(if I could pick anything I wanted regardless of money)
I told the whole class that I wanted to be a beat poet
in a jazz band, but I didn't tell them: I also want to sing

my baby told me
I'm dancing with a demon slayer
put her lips to my ear
whispered, "some secrets are meant to be shared."
if only I had cared
caressed her
skin to skin
but habits die
                        hard
and I have trouble beginning
because I'm so afraid of
                                          the end

I'm not sure if I'm
more sad
             or relieved
that you don't read
what I write
or that I
sometimes
keep you up
late at night
twisting and turning
               sweating body
             getting hot in your
sleep so hot that you
wake to another
smoldering morning
              another hard day
          a chance to fight the world
             to punish whomever
              because you deserve it
             your loneliness a cave
          that you're a slave to
too afraid to find a home
unsure how to speak
    no signs of being weak
       just angry
alone in your rage
your pen writing your wage
as you build up your cage
the walls of your spirit
bury themselves deep
  an attempt to escape
    solemn efforts
    mouth agape
you'll find no empathy from me
not any more, no, not again
no longer lovers, we were never friends
unrequited, ignited and scarred
not knowing your own strengths
you kept your heart barred
then swung hard
   almost a year since
no regrets yet
almost a life spent
wasted and thrown
hollow bombshell feelings
I write you with my fingertips
while I write these poems too
I hope we never cross paths again
because it's true, I still love you

words:
a poets kiss

water:
to wet your
                     tongue
throat                    
               lips

tell me this:

which set of words
arranged in which way
would send me in the direction
of your heart, hands, head, just ahead?

which tone of voice...

soothes you into sleep
to awaken the greatest dreams?

or shakes you into daybreak
to my face, smiling, you inside?

which tone would I need
to hone enough of a melody that will keep you near?

and which would I need to move you closer
so that you would be right here?

What could I hear
in the deep
dark marks
of your scars?

What could I learn
as we drink
walking
talking
playing
in bars?

What more would spill
from you, if, instead of
ingesting toxins...
we just keep talking //
instead in daylight
through forests
up mountains
down river
up stream
I bet you'd beam!

I say it all as if I know you, but I honestly don't know a thing.

words: a poets kiss

We are all one
recycled energy
fluxing in and
                         out
               of existence.
We are but waves,
pulling each other
under, and bursting
into the light with
burning lungs,
flowing through the motions
of
daily life.

Sink or swim?

seeing myself in the morning
only this one is different
not so lonely
more homely
comfortable
yet, unfamiliar
not so *****
more ****
confident
yet, restless

I want to hold on
to the best of this
lips pressed into
a kiss, one before
and after
another
never ending
it seems

Today you leave
For your home and family
You tread a star-struck path across northern skies
Yet remember one
Who, in tears, leaves you happily
For he still feels your sanctuary

And you my love
With several splendours shining
Were I to stain the sound of your flesh with my words
Then I would drink deep on those tears
To leave you smiling
In the hot mid-summer’s morning

If words could change
I would turn them into love
To let your body sparkle at this leaving
And I would make this place a bed
With no roof above
But changeless words are not enough

Sometime? Later?
Will we meet on avenues?
Will we once more naked lay inside that peace
As lovers in a gangling heap
When the loving’s through
Will we then say, “we did it too.”(1)

1 We Did It is a poem by Yehuda Amichai and well worth reading

I've laid the shovel down
And light a candle,
Though I hardly remember why.

I've grieved for the niches
Of para-pschology,
And a general spirituality.
The out-of-body vacations,
The near death revelations.

I pine for the oaken smell
Of pews in a row;
The creak of ancient kneelers,
A red bright sanctuary light.

I am pagan,
Meditating in a copse.

.
Long frosts blow in from the north,

Moon draws night by crescent eye,

Family scattered to four winds forth,

Antique sun slouches low in the sky.