You said we'd leave this place
But it's all over now
Everybody's gone for work
I'm still stuck in this small town

You left for work that morning
The day that I made coffee
There was something in your eyes
That began to make me worry

You walked out the door
Like I was nothing anymore
I held onto you so tightly
You eventually pulled the cord

Was there nothing at all
That made you want to call?
I memorized your number
For when you'd have time in the fall

But once a year had passed
I realized she was never coming back
Her only desire was attention
But I cannot give
What I do not have.

Unexpected things

never startle me, I just --


respond too slowly.

She visits my house,

and I am a guide who learns --


what things are special.

Live an eternal

present, or learn your lessons --


time and time again.

Pleading for a purchased god
Romanticized for its ancien régime
Celiac, and yet I licked the wheat paste
Of the letter I was was trimmed A4

In all that time spent by the basin
(and its traffic-trimming wetlands)
I only rode my bike to the depot
To color code my calendar

When capital kept its calls collect,
When the gravy train kept me idle
Each chamber would be emptied
Fruitlessly: punch drunk with praise

(Indulge a little)

Each from four through five: orchestrated
The plains always claim the sixth
(Respecting the tradition of western folk)
Only three will ever threaten treatment

I don't ask Do you

love me? as long as I learn --


to understand you.

Compete for your attention,
why would I?

What's the payoff, as they say,
what's in it for me?

Did you learn that?
Did your culture leave you a little,
enough
to know
you got a price to pay for any rest,
true rest, trust me, in peace,
you can't earn that.

Step by step I walk

through the landscape, more and more --


it penetrates me.

Something sings beneath

reality, there's the beat --


of a heart, loudly.

Why do we distort beauty?
Beauty can be power, but it can also be a burden
I never understood, but now I do

When we are not bestowed with it,
We cage it by any and all means possible
We mock those who lack it and hate those who have it

Green monsters rise in us
We blur the pure with cold blacks and angry reds
We blame them while we try to be them
I suppose jealousy is a fickle thing

In the stories of old, they say one is blessed with beauty
To gain the admirable attention of others,
How it must feel to be dotted on

But then comes the curse
Of having too much attention
Of getting the wrong attention
Of being objectified and not respected
Of being catcalled in the streets and attempting to ignore crass comments and rude remarks.

Like the attention
Don't like the attention
To be called beautiful is such a nice thing
Until it's not.