If time is a convincing illusion, then as I am writing this,
you are reading it; you are remembering me years after
we have spoken last, and I am noticing you for the first time.

I'm a young woman waking up in an apartment in Albany,
New York, realizing that I am finally broken enough to fix,
and an East Boston moppet in ***** pink overalls, riding
Big Wheels through the sprinklers with a boy named John Henry.

You're delivering newspapers on a cold New Hampshire morning.
I am falling asleep wondering if you could possibly love me.
You are saying that you do. You are stardust, and I am long gone.

I just want to meet poets.

The ones
in
the clubs
not
made for poetry.

The one's who
reside
in places
where
their thighs are places
for grinding.

The one's that push dudes off
without malice.

I want to meet the poets
at the bar,
taking in all their ears can handle,
because someday
they will
write it all down.

I want to meet the poets
in the middle of divorce,
becuase the pain of separation;
is a fissure of
love.

Poets in their cars
at five in the afternoon
with the windows open,
because carbon dioxide
builds in the system
and a greenhouse
of hope
may
be
feeding
unborn seeds.

I just want to meet poets.

you're like a dog
who just ate **** from a diaper
even with the chicken waiting in your bowl
you took what was closest
not willing to take a slight challenge
and too ignorant to see what the better option was

I used to watch you while you slept and hate you
that you could sleep
while my mind was racing
while my heart was aching
while I wept.
the alarm clock lit your face with a blue glow
you slept like you had earned it
while my mind was racing
while my heart was aching
while I wept.
without waking, you'd reach for me, pull me to your chest
I'd breathe your scent, feel your warmth
while my mind was racing
while my heart was aching
while I wept.
I used to lie in your arms while you slept and hate you.

Coming as you do,
from a land so close to the sun
I am not surprised that you are filled with light
Nor am I surprised that you carry a piece of
those warm blue oceans where
music springs from all places
even the broken bottles
what surprises me is the ease
at which you share it
so that I, who have only swam
in cold dark waters
sometimes miss it too.

To My Beloved Dulcinea,

the very thought of your
beauty and wonder
let me cast aside perils
with but an image in my mind's eye
of your sweet face
gives me strength on lonely treks

In visions
I burn for you
I soar in your triumphs
and howl like a demon in your
tribulations.

when you smile
I swim in your joy
it is by you
that I may ignore defeat.

She loves the beat,
bass so heavy
it hurts.

She loves the heat,
ecstasy,
short skirt.

In the middle
of these times,
I'm square.

I'd like to be
with New York City,
if she'd ever take
a bore like me.
But
in the middle
of her times,

I'm square.

I'd like
to hear her
digitally
repeating,

with her
lips pressed
against my ear,
soft whispers,
heavy breathing,

*they can't stop me.
No,
they can't stop me
from dreaming.