my love, daily,
my daily bread,
falls on my
buttered-side
down daily

my love, daily
my daily dish,
pour over my
flimsy flats
for that I wish, daily

my love, daily,
my daily dial,
pick me mine
pricked up ears
the line is deaf, daily

Someone told me once
that I should write for me
in my poetry

But I really want
to write for others to make them happy
in my poetry

So here in this poem
you will surely see
in my poetry

Laugh out loud
laugh a lot
at my poetry!

There's always a train whistle
blowing in the distance and a dog
keeping me awake complaining.
I know my life is less than I want.
I start smoking. I write poetry and
send them to The New Yorker for
the rejection letters I treasure in
the drawer I open years later and
wonder why. I destroyed what I had
and rebuilt mile by mile to you.

Why I need to act according to the context.

Contexts are not created according to my forethought.

The real  is neither seen nor understood.
The unreal is seen and understood as the real.

I read somewhere,
If you can't sleep at night
It's because
You are awake
In someone else's dream...
and Now I Know
Why I am
Still wandering
In the hour
When the night breaks away
from the day
and the orange streaks
Paint the sky with color
My Dear!
Can you stop dreaming of me?