Drive me to the edge of the earth;
You're in control.

I've been reading the dictionary lately,
A little something to pass the time
As I melt into the passenger seat,
With the world just ebbing on by.
Blurs bend the visible light;
We're going the wrong way.

Am I really here at all?
These thoughts are hard to handle.
What happens next I'm not sure,
But I'm willing to take a gamble.

Would you please pass me a needle,
With thread that blends to this flesh of mine.
I've been reading the dictionary lately,
And it turns out to have been a complete waste of time.
Blurs burn all things to white;
We're going the wrong way.

Drive me off the end of the earth;
You're in control.

I’m staring at cars going to the horizon.
Thumb out by the road I walk beside them.
Some are too kind and give me a ride.
                                       But I’m a passenger. Their journey’s not mine.
                                       They head to their goal with no hint of doubt.
                                       Soon they will stop and I must get out
They leave me behind, I’ve no car of my own.
I look for headlights to bring me along.
I beg for rides just to get farther.
                                       My journey is long and it just gets harder.
                                       I steal each mile and climb even higher.
                                       Keep moving. I am life’s hitchhiker.

there's a place for this- this blood
this place where the skin can be pulled right from the lip
a gun pulled from the glove compartment
in warm December this private affair
traveling with passenger zero
into the title of a love song or
narrowing into the wet corners of the mouths
softened annunciations over an early sixties recording

her song brings shakes to legs and swiveling snakelike movements
this Spanish river goddess I do not even know by name who settles the wars of babes and covers the infinite dust of infinite children

there are places like this:
still and magical and pleasantly mute

where she stares back to me returning
the years of eye mail exchanged between us
as if returning a floral arrangement that lost its scent
or a novel that lost its story
and a passenger writhing with envy

with a back turned she moseys
along the dirt path of the arboretum
a small dance in the bowels of her step

somewhere we blend the stories of each other’s pockets
mending the balance of need
hands surfacing in weathered bluejeans

3 | 31 Poems for August

I received a notification that you posted a picture an hour ago.
How you manage to look that happy is something that I’ll never know.
I’ll never know if I’ll ever be able to let you go.
Watching TV, while Passenger’s “Let Her Go” is on repeat.
I’m listening, but sporadically missing the lyrics and the beat.
It hurts to write but it hurts even more walking around with an untold story.
So I write to write, I write to save myself.
I write to save the little bit of love that I have left.
The song keeps playing, “Only know you love her when you let her go.”
Let her go, but I need to let her know that my love will continue to grow.
My love for her is something that I’ll always proudly show.
They say home is a beating heart and sweaty palms.
Home is where the heart is and that’s what hurts the hardest.
Help me stop the hurting, help me become a better person.
Too many times I try to hide all that I’m feeling inside.
The pit of my stomach is full of dead butterflies.

I received a notification that you posted a picture an hour ago.
How you manage to look that beautiful is something that I’ll never know.
I’ll never know if I’ll be able to ever let you go.
But just know, my reflection of love is eternal even if the mirror begins to crack.
Even though you have left, I’ll always try to get you back.
Too many times I try to hide all that I’m feeling inside.
The pit of my stomach is full of dead butterflies.

sitting in the passenger seat of your car at 2 am felt more like home than any other place ever did.

Despite our sundry transportations, trains and planes,
I don't believe us to really be voyagers;
The years, months, ticks and tocks that come and go in vain,
Like Ulysses at sea, they're the real wanderers.

Doomed to drift on water, timeless, yet growing old,
Aye, never setting anchor, always setting sail
To the end of th'endless river, where lies fool's gold.
That's all the future is; just Melville's ***** whale.

When the boat is languid, we ask it to go faster,
When the boat is lively, we implore it to stop;
The ship capsizes, it had too many masters
But just go with the flow and it'll stay on top.

We couldn't captain a tiny rubber dinghy,
Time's the real pioneer, and we her passengers.

I watch and
On a star light night
For a falling Star
As a confirmation
That an ambition
Will prove to be positive

If I see one
My confidence
Is improved
Yet I still know it is a wish
That I make as it falls
Not an action

After all it
Could be space junk falling
Or the fragments’ of a jet airliner shot down
Kind takes the fun right out of it
Wishing on
A shooting star