home improvementsit isnt your jobto save menor is it mineto fix youthis fatalinsistenceon repairingeach otherdestroys usall I really needis the warmthof your skinthe quiet peaceof your voicewhen I reachfor youin the dark
Promise MeI lie among cool sheetsin a dim afternoonlistening to rainfall, the soundsit makes tappingat the windows,dripping fromthe eaves,and I rememberanother afternoonwhen you lay herewith me in thequiet of eveningand whisperedpromises inmy hair asday slid intonight promises,though unkept,still beautiful inthe making.
abandonif Icouldlay myselfasidelikeclothesbefore abathI wouldbegin anewin a freshskinuntrainedto anyhand butyoursandyou couldteachmetolove withthe samerecklessjoywith whichI long tolive
reboundknowingI'm a fooldoesn'tmake mewant youless
hemorrhagesince loving you,I bleedyour smilingeyes hiderazors,your lipsknivesbecausethey touch meso sweetly, cut me so deeplywithoutlovejust as yourbody doesin thedark
undonefor onebrightly lit momentwe lovednow I dreambut darklyon a bed of promises unmade
grave markeryour memory beatsbehind my eyeslike a migrainea pounding achein the ever-rememberingof the almostI can hearyour voicean echoof dead hopesthat even nowI cannotbring myselfto bury
fooled.becauseI smile whenhe liesto mehe believesme unawareof thedeception
burgeonI opened myselfbefore you like ablossom tothe sunand you fellupon me like ablind torrentsoon spentleaving mebroken and bruisedas a tulip in asudden stormdestroyed inits newnessby the pouringrain
clinglet us lovewith the lushunrestraint ofwild roseswith theabandon ofuntamed blackberrieswith the blatantlaughter of tumblinghoneysuckleand whenwinter comeswe willcling toeach other andrememberthe spring
anewthe yearshang on myboneslike winteron the vinemy once-supplelimbs shakein thetempest ofyour discontentmy sere trunkcracks beneaththe weatherof yourwrathyou plowme intothis hardearth onelast timeand myroots arefinallytorn free(of you)now I settlelike dustin this fallowfield and waitfor spring
devotedhelloyoull be glad to knowthat I hardly everthink of youanymoremy nights areno longer sleepless,my eyes red-rimmedand puffyIm over youat last, emptinessa tired relieffrom painyes, I dontmiss youanymore but my number hasnt changed if you ever need to reach me
book of longingits quiet todayI sit in a shadowed roomwrapped in a blanket thatsmells like youLeonard Cohenlies neglected in my lapas I watch the misting rainslide past my uncurtainedwindowin the dimness of agray afternoon, I wonderwhat you do whenI creep unwantedinto your thoughtsdo you busy yourselfwith mindless chores?turn up the televisionto drown out mywhispers?do you bury yourselfin the warm flesh ofanother and try toerase me?or do you sit andlisten to the drifting rainand read old poetswhose hearts burstwith wanting?their need bleedingout onto coldempty pages?volumes of screamstucked neatly awaybetween cardboardcovers to offer comfortto those whounderstand silentshriekingits quiet so quiet -today
wontpain slides downmy back likethe hands ofa hated loverone with whomI'm so familiarthat I knowto dread his coming
misledyour memory leavesa bad taste in my mouthlike under ripe orangesor bleeding gumsI trusted youand you let me down(just as someone long agohad done to you)but I didnt learnthe same lessons you did -to mistrust all of mankind,that the world is out to get meI learned only thatI cant trustyou
Hope of HeavenI rememberthe warmth ofyour coffee-stainedbreath witha dab of cream anda half-spoon of sugar.I still hear your laughterat my crinkled nosewhen we paintedthese close walls withour dreams andSherwin Williams.I loved the smellof you on dayslike these, scented likeburning leavesand October winds.I hope heavensmells like you,for since youve gonewhere I cannotfollow,its all the hopeI have left.
deardreams were cheapwhen we were youngwe could crumple them uplike miswritten love notesand throw them outto start againlazily plucking new onesfrom the rose-coloredfields of our insouciancebut now the days shortenroads once open are walled shutour feet turn in aimless circlesdreams become dearas one by onethey die beneathrealitys heavy bootsand none rise up toreplace them
mutedas the worldgoes to sleeparound memy body singswith lusta surging demandbegging youto remind methat I'm aliveand life is goodbut you're not hereand my singing fleshgoes againunheard
Dreaming In MotionPossibly comatoseAnd literally dropped out Were riding with the top downOn a purple December midnight. My fingers rake through the falling flakes And the birds sing in chorus, from theBlue and pink floodlight streetlights Our bare feet dig into the seats, we scream our manifesto, And a myriad of unintelligible intellectual frivolities And sigh. Sweat drips down and freezeslike a runway between our eyes and our cheeks.
Short StanzaYou're chin is a grammatical errorbecause I know your smile could beso much wider,so much morepunctual.Smiles like awkward teen question marks,grins like merry-go-round commas.Pursed lips like passion fruit periods,Finish my sentence.
Pondering Whilst they Whistle We sit inthe dark with the sounds of crickets as an overture, and we miss those we love. this has nothing to do with higher
Single Serving Mirrors We're different. We see through the sameeyes, you and II'm a gingerbread mix, you'rea shivering sugar -different, but from the samejagged cookie cutter. I hear your silent sighs as I desert the comfortless pillow in the morning.I feel the cold running through your feetas the floor creaks (your name) under my soles. (We are one you and Itwo raven colored bullets in this twisted blue sky we're one person under this damn sun.)It's your face I see in the mirrorin my eyes yourangry threads fork the air. Its your face.We see the same face the same flesh &
Hey Beautiful.You catch my I like an all star softball player,HowI'd love to see you rushing through the blue skychasing after a dream wishing It were me. in your glove and not just a U in mine. There's an O,somewhere around here, amongst the tangle weeds of denial and
MilkwoodI've got that old 2 am feelingeloquence drowned in brandy winespirits my veins,makes my words go boisterousand damn,my poetry sounds brilliantthundered back to mefrom the bricksspinning under my head.I am at war with the worldssliding down my wallsthis eveningand stars from the gutterlook ferocious,battering the skywith the unpinned glory of godsand my random lunacyricocheting and left dancingthrough the trees' black lacelike the brash kiss of armageddon....
Waltzing with two left feet. (Truth is, theres no difference between you and I, and me and you) I made your favorite, and I left the gas on.You always liked smoke, you said but never the side effects.This glass house, I'm burning it out. You're throwing rocks blindly and round about. For you, anything you'd want.For me, the worst is yet to come.
Orgasms.If You Do Them Right,She Won't Call you by your own name.This is as close as you get to Holy,Answer her prayers."Oh. God." You learn to love the new title.
Gray Matters: Greg.He sits on his loftwith his worn white socksand his thought sunken eyes, his chin in the airand his mind with the starsthat we couldn't see where (we) came fromhe plucks at the chords aimlessly,and they string themselves togetherseamlessly, like thefibers of the blankethe rests on. OrGray clouds wonderingif the world needs a cool breeze.His voice carries throughthe grated windowsunannounced, and his modestyis offset by his masterful fingerplay.I wonder what he dreams of when he sleeps.
deconstructionat the nexus where my unhappiness intersects with your needwe implodetwo crumbling structures that fall into each otherour dustsifting together - a chemical conflagration in which willinglywe burn