nubthousands of wasted wordsand still no poems
lovemy joy in you was short livedmy sorrow everlasting
the open roadthe road beckonsand I will answerI will ride Highway 65until my gas money gives outand leave my tired Buickin a soft ditch with the kudzuI'll walk until I finda place that touches me a soft patch of cool grasswith a view of the whole big sky a quiet placewhere I can lay myself downand no longer weepwith wearinessthe stars will shine downfrom the sea of nightand I'll smile whenI close my eyesknowing I can nowrun onforever
Tank Away 11The winter solsticehas passed. Winter nights will shorten,hearts warming with hope.And from the soft, hushed darkness,a new sun begins to rise.
running errandsit's not theeggs or milkor breadthat I'm afterit's the soundlonelyis quietand whenthe silencescreamsI mustfill itwithother people'snoise
dreamerhe's goneever searching forgreener pasturesand she droopslike a flowerin the rainwaiting againfor hisreturn
incalculablehe's good to mewe eat at nice placesand never arguehe's gentle in bedbut he isn't youwe lived onpeanut butter,ramen noodlesand the world fadedwhen you cameinto viewdisappeared utterlywhen you took mein your handshe loves meyou almost killedme with your leavingbut if you roared backinto my world tomorrowhe'd be forgotten bythe time we reachedthe highway
lightlesssince you've goneyour memory lay upon my worldlike a shadow across the suna point of impenetrable darknessfor which there isno remedy
revenantsome nights,dreams aren't enoughwhen the acheruns deep,I need more thanremembered embraces,imagined trysts,more than hopesof tomorrow, next week,next yearI want the truthof your bulkbeside me whenI turnin the dark,the realityof warm skinnot my own,the unknowingof lonelybut you're not here(and no one else will do)so I willtoss and turnin the cold armsof my dreamingonce more
THE WAXING MOONA waxing moon does shine its lightUpon a meadow greenTonight it be a witching nightThe likes that none have seen.O yes that waxing moon does shineUpon the grass and treesThe mist, it has the taste of brineWhat mysteries we've yet to see.There is magic in the waxing moonUnicorns they come to feedShouting laughter from the LoonHere be no ill will, nor greed.The waxing moon illuminatesAs their be fairy folk upon the knollWith a festive atmosphere createsA warming heart to any soul.A waxing moon does shine its lightUpon that meadow greenThe day now takes away the nightAnd steals away those things unseen…
FragmentI lie to saythis tooshall passwhen nothingstaysin humangrasp......that famousplacecalled memory -my friend,do you stillthink of me?You gave mecouragewhen I hadnoneand quietgracewhen daywas done.You stretchedyour armsin finalpainand weheld ontill mercycame.Oh, tell meof eternallightwhen I liethinkingin thenight...when I liedreamingin thenight...
this is why we struggle to sleepshe germinates,pale bud breakingthe eastern ground,silver petals peelingback the dark skywe flick up switches,windows reflecting bright screensas she wilts into the west.
pantomiming conversationblackbirds huddle tails and talonsaround a snow-heaped dumpster hangouthaggling the price of tomorrow's mealin squawks, bobs, and scrapsregurgitating last week's rotting newsand last night's burnt spaghettiI imagine them human,tall and proud in ruffled, rumpled suits,feathers greased sleek in topknots--beaks painted bright in pantomime
Accepting My BodyMy body is a temple and you cannot enter.It is made to be worshiped, not used,So bow like it's an alter."Am I free tonight?" No, I'm too expensive to buy.And while this might sound arrogant,Think I'm conceited?, Just know you're not the only one I will deny.My ego is not huge, in fact, it's just right.Just big enough for me to see I don't owe you shit,So take that to your fight.But if you truly are curious, let me explain:I'm just accepting me, as I am, I'm cutting through this ball and chain.I can finally see myself as I am.I can finally look in that mirror and go, "Damn!"I am beautiful in my weird eyes,That turn from grass to gold to Indian skies.I am beautiful in my brown hair,That never fails to flip when I'm trying for flair.I am beautiful in my white skin,That darkens in a blush as my lips stretch into a grin.Speaking of that, I love my lipsThey speak soft words of tender love or harsh insults that crack like a whip.I love my hands, which are ever
Nothing LessI would expect nothing less, from a mocking worldWhere no light is left aloneIf there was a name to call it out upon, its sins would not atone.For out one time, a time agoI left this world of ours. The one that leaves you in the dustWith fire in your lungs. No glory did I have that hour, but no shame do I have nighSwinging from the redwood boughs, countless joy for IFor when, in the last dying of the light, does come a sharp crack ofIllumination, it fills the void inside. Swinging from the dusty tree,I could at last decide my fate. The fickle thingThat plays with usCould and will forever hold me nevermore.Since I have died and blown away,Upon the breeze that snapped the treesAnd countless bones of mine,I reap whats called a victory in shying amber eyes. “TheWarden of the Wendodawn” is whatThey cry today.I leave them in the frozen fieldSo far and thrown away.Not from life, nor light or joyBut from the very things they knowTo leave them far behind; those
SucculentLike a fig ripened in thesoft summer sunplucked by rough,unchurched hands,I find my sweetness eatenfrom the inside outuntil theres nothing leftbut skin.