I was sitting outside,
smoking a cigarette
with three of my favorite pals,
and I looked at each one of them,
and I told them,
"I love how,
right now,
we're happy.
And how,
when I look in each of your eyes,
I can see the smile that isn't even on your face,"
and then we smiled,
and I went back inside.

Performance assurance,
it's not on my mind.
But a next-morning
pillow, complacent with time,
or the wedding to party to funeral line,
and the "Sorry's" and "Thank You's" and
half empty sighs.

Not a fan of commitment,
but just love is just fine,
not the money or muscles,
for which you will pine,
when I'm grumpy and bitter and old, and confined
to the frame of a man who was once so sublime.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

He writes good.
Well, using "twenty dollar words," anyone
can coin a phrase.
Call me a ****, as I finish the intended word,
and browse said book to find the meaning.

He writes good.
Well, knowing how to place a period
is rather elementary.
But let me learn you something.

He writes good.
Well, tension is told in fragments.
No? Well. Okay.

He writes good.
Well, a minimalist knows
that every word
counts.

He writes good.
Well, to be a realist,
you must know that
coincidence differs from irony.
Step onto an elevator.
Is it coincidence that every building,
is missing the thirteenth floor?
Or is it ironic that superstition
has laid the blueprint?

He writes...well,
he writes.

no, I don't care for the sun.
I don't care for the summer months
that blind me with heat.
I fall asleep so easily
with the runners passing by.
even now, it's nearly autumn and they run past
at 5:28 in the moring.
jesus ****, go to back to bed.
but I suppose they
could just as easily say the same to me.

go back to bed, you purpose
driven *******.
go back to bed.
go back to bed.

what if we took
a secret trip
some place far away,
the two of us.

who cares where we go?
i do not need
to get away from anything;
i just want
something

something with you that
both of us will remember;
something great --
that only we know about.

i woke up at four am
you had died approximately three hours before
i got chills and lay impossibly still
with wide eyes
there was something
all around me

i climbed cautiously
down to the bathroom
to smoke a cigarette
as if someone
was watching

i drank a lot
of water

now whenever i get chills
i think it is you
trying to touch me

today as i methodically
wiped down tables
a radio broadcast in the background
was having a deep
sunday night personal in-depth hour
on the talk show
and all this losing a loved one
and a piece of me
****
is really getting to me
because you're still here
aren't i breathing?

this feeling is not a wishbone
it breaks evenly
and we walked away
with half of each