A Day in paradise
And I can no longer write
Meaningful sentences,
It's like I need some suffering,
Some cold weather,
Being surrounded
By dead-eyed people
To express,
To write
Emotions and ****.
If everyone is happy
Poetry disappears.
Silly humans,
Said an alien
Trying to understand
Why wars,
Why pain,
Why Poe or Shelley
Or Buk.
Why?
If they could just live
In the middle of the planet
And be happy.

All land begins
underneath these feet:
a merry makebelieve.

Jump
and catch a glimpse of Arabia
in red,
Birkenhead
in yellowish-grey,
Berlin's fading rainbow..
all lacking in depth like
floaters,
like foreign pain,
like your very first birthday.

Don't they?

Spend days in suspension,

don't you?

Well, look around!
You see ahead
and back
are much the same
when all is round.
And all IS round!
Unless of course,
you're
on the ground
where a single wave can
****.

Doubtless fun,
boundless thrill, all
but for a price!
Here
even cloudy sunsets imply
sacrifice.
And at nights
perfect darkness never dwells,
Some devilry always tells the time
in mocking ways:
Jump
and you're on holidays,
divorced from all necessity,
sleeping in the sun
for days an altogether different
beast,
electrified,
with sandbagged veins.

At least not dead,
I hear you say.
How cute..
Alas! the price you pay for
being oh so futile is per se
a snide;
So pick your cherries and throw them
in that tide!
You know the lights in this harbour never return
in a straight line
May craft and the shimmering power
not let you be
the fog in the rye,
or the rock's inside.

You are round and everything
is your equal.
So consider your battles well.

I remember the smell,
Like old wood and
     Lake water
Somehow found itself
     Mixed into some sea
           Of sheets,

And I remember
Waking up,
     Entangled and drowning
In an ocean of
Unfamiliar bedspreads
As you climbed into
      The morning soaked
Bed with me.

Your skin soft
     And vanilla
          And brushing lightly
Against the hairs on my arm
     That you made stand up tall,
Kissing me awake
     As I pushed your auburn
         Strands of fire
         Hair whispering in a
         Tickle against my ear.

The way your hand
     Rested with possession on my chest
           And tapped some forgotten tune
As we waited
For afternoon to
     Beckon us downstairs,

The steady hum of
The shore catching
The waves of the
      Lake shimmering green
      In the summer heat
           At the wooden base
                Of our cabin outside.

And I remember
     Our collective shut of eyes,
Resting our foreheads together
     As our hands journeyed
          To reach one another's
          Beneath the home in the sheets
We wished to never leave.


That was two years
     And a love and a half ago,

So now I long
     For nothing more
Than these summer mornings
To wake up not so lonesome
                                                  anymore.

If only I could sail away
Live at another place for another day
Cast my problems into the sea
To just for once, live without worry

Where were you in Montréal,
when the heavens sang a disjointed chord,
a harmony both rich and poor,
where were you in Montréal?

Where were you in Montréal,
when we took a drag outside the bar,
and learned there's more to who we are,
where were you in Montréal?

Where were you in Montréal,
when the cobblestone path led us home,
despite our hearts begging to roam,
where were you in Montréal?

Where were you in Montréal,
when the sun rose like gentle tide,
like a warm blanket on a cold night,
where were you in Montréal?

Where were you in Montréal,
when we branded warm memories,
inside the souls of you and me,
where were you in Montréal?

Somewhere
in the middle of New York
a white-and-blue,
Pacific island:

...
sitting on itself,
prim and low
as if waiting for someone important, but
not wanting to seem so.

sitting on itself,
as if waiting for someone,
many boats go by
(no, not that one...)
(not that one, either...)

sitting on itself,
small and proper
proper and small...
(**** is wet)

sitting on itself...
I wonder How long
has he been sitting there like that,
won't his
feet be cold?
**** be wet?

The lonely island...

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

sit close but
not too close, as if
friends.
in the past few lives but,
not in this one (yet)

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

quietly for a moment
then turn to him and say,
with sparkling Pacific angel eyes
turn to him and say,

"The world needs you, Steve."

And Steve would continue staring off into the distant, blue horizon where
there's not much, save for a
distant, blue horizon
...

but pigeons are not gulls,
gulls are not pigeons.

and the Hudson River
is 315 miles long.

"My name isn't Steve."