skeletons

6. 15. 2008

Your hands and feet...

I like the bony places

where I can see your 

fragile framework.

Every interlocking part

that makes you -simply. 

Layers after 

that make you 

strong

smart

handsome

remarkable-  remarkably. 

Against all odds

against all expectations.

I like the thick skull 

that anchors your black hair

the deviated septum

that makes you snore

loudly

then quieter 

when I kick you. 

Color Wheel

November 14, 2007

I miss your blue cashmere coat

Your black Honda CRX

Our white bird house

The yellow dollhouse doorbell

Your moments of pink compassion

That seem to have been replaced

by this sea-green depth between us.

boiled eggs

I am realizing a great many things these days

like the 

should have dealt with this differently feelings

of unsophistication 

that accompany

the filling of voids with 

drunken desperate fucks

on late lonely Saturday nights

and hazy early Sunday mornings

rife with ulterior motives

and hiding true feelings

with a thin veil of 

Cool Hand Luke indifference

slipping through the floor boards

when the warden ain't lookin'

the "i don't want anything serious" lies 

told when one knows they have 

failed

and been cast aside

thrown away

the unwanted 

wanting so much

having no idea what we really want 

at all

wishing we could eat 50 boiled eggs 

to prove our worth

ain't nobody can eat 50 eggs.

sanity

I want that right-brained brilliance

that accompanies mental illness.

That invisible inner-cerebral muse

whispering a poetic genius.

I want that megalomania -

The imagined greatness

born of melancholy

raised by decades

and immortalized in anthologies.

The sexual deviancy in the past

that haunts and whispers

"write

write

write

and be brilliant."

Late Nights (a haiku)

It is scary how

little it actually

has to do with love.