Down I go into the gray and brown.
I hit the sides, like being in a cradle that is
rocked too fast.  It's an abrupt catastrophe.
I didn't see this one coming; but I felt it, like
the slight rumble of an earthquake, or like the
false dawn, before the real light yawns, and
opens the sickly day.
It's just another ending, dapple and down.

Destiny is a
smiling *******
riding a motorcycle
through the
neighborhood, laughing
at children playing in
yards, eaten by worms and
time.
Pink
green
white
Keliedescope confusion on all
the cat's faces.
Providence is a stealthy hunter.

Sometimes a poem is a
beast you create that
***** and ****** all over
the page.It doesn't need neutered
but it does need
house broken.

Death winks at the
lilies that smile in
the rain.
He takes her.
The last ***** trick.

Watered drinks and
syphilis doesn't do the
patrons any good.
Too much grief for
placebos and madness.
Relief must come.
***** and fantasy just
bring sickness, and
licking frogs is
out of the question.

Pipe dreams ease the pain
if you smoke them slowly.
Watch the blue ghost curl
into the feeling fan.

This saloon is home for the
iceman.
So, buy me another drink,
and we can think about
doing it all
tomorrow.
Isn't that right, Mr. O'Neil?

On those 2:00 a.m. February mornings, when I get up to ****, death is in my
creeking bones.
As I thumb through memories in the old family photographs, death smiles back, in black and white.
He hides in the shadows of the lined up pill bottles, like toy soldiers on the nightstand.

But when I lie in bed and look for pictures in the smoky stucco ceiling, I see coffins and funeral pyres and I close my eyes and grin, because my friend conquered death and took the
fear out of
the grave.

When Summer's heat
gives way to
autumns bliss,
I will kiss this
world goodbye
and walk to
the woods
to save
the last sliver
of my humanity,
where the creek
meets the river of
my destiny.
Far away from
the ****** city of
sick Streets
and broken
dreams.

She had these little cups
of coffee for eyes, and I
should have stayed up
all night.
Love is a drunk *****.
A lie from Saturn.
Venus, slither back in the
ocean where you belong.
Loneliness is a knife cutting
my ***** off.
Knowledge arrived with an
alarm clock from hell,
always the wrong *******
time. Slammed doors, words
of hatred.
What happens to the man that
inherits the wind?

Deliciously loving you,
yet, I'm the
one that got ate up
and spit out.
So I lie on
an empty beach
like a broken sea shell,
while the lonely rain
pounds the sand.

She tastes like
a sunset, and
smells like peaches...
succulent,
soft.

Moonlight breaks fast on our
windowsill madness, while
passion kisses us in
the white-hot heat.
Her ****** is a
stranger strangling me.

Medusa turns men to stone.
And I'm rock hard
three floors up.

When I explode,
I'm
like a butterfly
floating into the sun.

Time has run through
golden fields of hay
and swam the moss-covered
ponds in the soft amber
light of dawn.

There are shards of
beauty in the
rubble of a broken life.

Those summer days
crawled
like
a

grumpy

tortoise.

Then galloped on by, like
a ******* colt.

I fed on the breast of life,
grew strong, and free.
And now,
those November birds

are

coming for me.

We all hated music class in
6th grade.
We clowned around
constantly.
The only thing good about
it was Miss. Reed. She was a
nervous sort.  She wore her
hair in a **** bun, there were
always a few hairs that escaped
her beret.  She wore these big
horn-rimmed glasses.
Sat on her desk and waved her
hands around like she was
conducting an orchestra of
idiots.

She became animated and
moved from side to side, up
and down.
C major children!
I always tried to
look up those tweed
skirts she wore.
One time, I thought I saw her
bush.
I told my friends, and they called
me a liar.

Frank McManus said,
"Alright, wise guy, what did it
look like?"

I said,
Our cat, Muffin, just had kittens.
There's this chubby black fuzzy one,
we call her Grumpy.  That's what
it looked like."

"Oh, you're full of ****, a broad like that
would wear *******.  What if she had a
period and bled all over?  They'd fire
her for sure."

We used to sing that old song, Molly Malone.
Well, I had my best friend who sat at the
desk right in front of me, and no ****,
his name was Wally Malone.
One day, after school, he cornered me in the
bathroom.
"If you scream, sweet Wally Malone and
that **** about cockles and mussels in my
ear one more ******* time, I'm gonna sock
you right in the mouth."
I always felt bad for the woman in
the song, dying of fever, and then haunting
the town.

During the last class before summer, we were
being especially wild.
Miss Reed said,
"Am I addressing a 6th-grade class?"
I said, "No, we dress ourselves."
I knew I should have been a
comedian instead of a poet.
I sure miss that kitten, Grumpy.

Smell the
newborn puppies;
placenta from heaven,
like candy canes and
burning leaves.
Stay green as long as
you can.
Drink up the sunrise like
a chocolate malt;
because tomorrow comes
with a sigh...

I make love to you;
exploring your body like
a garden.
I walk in the
lovely shade of your eyes;
that safe sky that I
long to fly in.
I dream of swimming in
the blue, and diving
hard into your wet pink soul.
I want to sink to the
bottom of your orchid, and
lick the nectar from
your swollen petals, like a
hummingbird--all beating heart and
pounding wings, as I let
the juice run down my bearded face.
I taste your sweetness in
the new morning sun.
I feel immortal,
and I wink at death.

What happened to your heart?
It used to be so strong.
When did these **** nights
get so ****** long

You're my Lady of ashes,
and I'm all burnt up.
You threw me in the fire;
And my soul has had enough.
I've had enough...
I've had enough,

I've had enough
Yeah.

This could be
the last poem I
ever write.
I hope not,
but it's possible.

If it were my
last poem,
what would I want
it to say?
Wow, not so easy.

Poetry has been a
loving wife, and I
will miss her on
all those sleepless
nights, when dreams
don't come.
Writing poems have
kept me in touch
with all the harsh
pain, and all the
sublime beauty.
Both are supreme
teachers.

Poetry has opened
my ears to the
sounds of the
earth, the whispered
rush of the creek
running over stones
and sticks.
The cries of my
children in the
night wanting
their mothers'
milk.

If this were
my
last poem, I would
want it to bring
some joy and be
a bit less sentimental.
Oh well,
guess I have to
write more.

She dressed up like a
***** just to go to the
bank.
And she ****** like
one too—drunk on
cheap wine—mascara smeared all
over her face.
I took her in every
****** position there is—we even
invented a few.
She had the most beautiful
mahogany eyes—they said
so much. Her smile made
my **** salute.
From dusk till dawn
we ****** until we
collapsed into each others arms;
warm and safe and spent like
the sun.
**** tomorrow,
may it never come.

There is dust on
the wall.
I watch it hang in
little wisps.
I’m distracted by  
everything.
All of it.
The small and large
items of life have me
chasing my tail, and avoiding  
the pen.

I postpone writing, like I’m
ending a bad relationship.
I avoid the tough
conversation.
I dance with impotence and
procrastination, like they are
lovely women.

I need to write.
I must create.
But there is an  
antagonist at work in the
trivial details of my
existence.
It smells like copper.
It hides the ink from  
my mind.

It would rather I do
anything else:
promote
market
*******
dream
sleep
eat
watch TV
or sometimes,
just stare at the
dust on the wall.

There she is:
naked and fickle on
the floor, *******
marrow out of
soup bones; her
*******
busy with
living things.

The muse plays
hide
and seek
like a spoiled
little child, as I s
sit with
sterile white
paper.
I think I see
her from the
corner
of my
eye, but when
I look,
she is gone, like
the last Dodo bird.
I yell, "Are you dead? "
NOTHING.
And then she
appears
dimly through
the glass and
gives
me a hard one,
fierce, right behind
the eyes,
in that still small
place where sullen
shadows
dance to Wagner, while
sparrows burn and
smell of
Spider Mums, and
funerals.

Then, she's gone like
the Cheshire cat.
(the grin remains.)
I get another
drink, hoping to
swallow and consume
her- to become one.
It doesn't work.
I get
frustrated, pace the
worn out
carpet, like a
caged tiger

Writer's block is
hell.
It's worse than
celibacy and
bologna.
Far worse than
constipation, or not
being able to ***.
It's like missing
the vein, or
dying of thirst in the desert.
It's like being
dead, but alive.

And
finally at
last
it's over (she consummates the deal)
and the words and
lines flow like
rain in Seattle in
the springtime.
I can
see the ***** in
the rose.
Taste
the sweet potato sky,
plant flowers in concrete, and
beat Mr. Death in
a game of go fish.
And
strangely,
it all smells like
home,
eternity,
and two-week old
puppies dreaming of
Mother's milk.

Blue-eyed delusion;
living in the past.
I guess sanity doesn't
last forever.
Maybe she never
had it at all
I need a woman that
treats me right,
and knows how to love,
not a monster that rages
in the night.
The railroad tracks
know the truth;
so do those harsh Iowa winters.
And talking about a god
doesn't change it.

At day's end, your love is like a
ditch full of weeds:
a rotting pumpkin, a returned letter,
a dead yellow cat in the grass.

At day's end, the *** drowns in the river
while trying to bathe.
The soul is deep in atrophy, and the
goldfish floats to the top of the bowl.

At day's end, your accusations attack like
cicada killers.
Your eyes are soulless, and the
clown is a killer.

At day's end, suicide is a viable option;
the light has been murdered.
Jack the ripper got away, and
the night goes mad with horrid dreams.

At day's end, the sailboat sinks,
the horse breaks its leg in the backstretch,
and neither your dog nor your hope will fetch anymore.

At day's end, there is a shadow behind the orchid.
Your ****** has teeth, and the bull becomes a steer.
At day's end, the planets fall to the sea,
noon is an illusion, and romantic love
is gored in the streets of Chili.
At day's end, my Alice won't leave Wonderland,
the dormouse drowns in his tea, and
the Dodo still can't fly.

At day's end, Don Quixote burns at the stake.
Robin hangs in his lonely closet.
Peter goes out upside down,
and old Ernie shotguns himself through breakfast.

The mediocre march into oblivion
while watching Tik Tok videos
and never reading a
book or writing a
poem.
They don't know
the difference between
an orchid or an iris.

The mediocre march into
madness sleeping until
noon, while neglecting
Bukowski and Mozart.
They don't know how
to play an instrument.
No idea what a C
major chord is.
But they know all
the emojis.
The sad sheep masses
don't
know the difference
between a Van Gogh or
Monet painting, and a
digital reproduction on
a coffee cup.
Their phones look
like grotesque growths
attached to their ears.
Everyone should
contribute to the
cosmic dance,
Carpe Diem
*******!

I'm in treatment again.
***** is wrecking my body.
This morning(pre-dawn) I took
my meds, drank coffee, and
did the breakfast setup.
My friend, (a brilliant saxophone player)
came through the line and said,
"What's up man?"
I said, "Oh you know...stuff.
How about you?"
He relied, "Oh yeah, Stuff...always lots of stuff,
...and things.  Always lots of things on my plate.

Our laughter broke through the
sound of Hell's Bells in the background.
There was a connection, a brotherhood of
the stuff and things society.
The little 8th notes and 16th notes,
and the verbs and nouns floated
in the kitchen air, mixing with the smell
of bleach and toast.
Creation was in the birthing process.
He asked,What's on the agenda for today?"
"oh crap, lots of crap...you?
"****...lots of ****, you know."
I chuckled,  "yes, I do know."
I stopped everything I was doing,
and frantically began
scribbling this poem.
He went to his room,
and grabbed his sax,
and began riffing on some
Miles Davis and John Coltrane.
Far from the sterile
smell of stuff,
things, crap, etc...

We were drinking ourselves
into the grave.
I escaped temporarily.
Greg didn't.
He was crossing a
busy street in Iowa City.
In his baggy, ***** jeans
was a bottle of ***** that
he had just lifted.
I'm guessing he was in
too big a hurry to
"get well" and knock
off the shakes.
A minivan ran him down.

Before the ***** wrecked him,
he was a lawyer, and a pretty
**** good golfer.
But what I remember the
best were our days at Prairie
Meadows, playing the ponies.
We cashed a few winning
tickets together, and
tore up some losers too.

God bless you, little buddy.
You're on the homestretch now.

On our way into
Santa Anita one day,
an old man had tipped
over in his wheelchair.
There was a pool of blood
beneath his smooth head.
I was with my Dad.
He was around the same
age as the poor injured man.
I was 12.

Seeing that man, and watching
the blank stares of the apathetic
crowd gathering around the
man, and the blood, and the
fallen wheelchair, I knew that
nobody would win, and the
horses that ran were the luckiest
of us all.

She's in a
self imposed cage.
I can see it in
her eyes;
a demon's hell-fire.
She loathes humanity,
especially men.
Anyone can blame
past circumstances for
how they are currently,
but ultimately,
love unlocks the
door to the
prison of hate.

I nurture the creator in you;
the little god that throbs to be master of
words and colors, lines and notes.
I watch you give birth to it.
I see how it squeezes out of
your brain and crawls across
the floor- all ****** and wet.
It's alive and glorious and grotesque.
You're immortal- a giver of life.
I hold it to my face, and breathe in
the smell of rain, pine trees, and desire.
I kiss its fur, and taste the
fires of hell, cardamom, and oysters, raw and sweet.
I feed it a bowl of saffron threads, soaked in milk,
stare into its wild black eyes; I can hear
it hum a tune in B flat minor, and I wonder,
whose seed is this?

I wish I had
a vein.
the highways are
under reconstruction.
It ***** like a
***** on 3-inch skids.
I did my time,
I'm part of the rhyme.
I'll stay lonely only
because of you..

As nightmares subside
at dawn, your eyes
reflect the fear and the
pain.
They spill a desire to try.

Please try.

You can walk in the
rain without an umbrella
and let the clover and
honeysuckle guide you
to safety.
Evict the chaos from
your thoughts, and
leave the incubus behind.

Like Bonnie and Clyde,
we rode the
night like thieves.
We hit most of
the stores in town.
I’d get the wine and
she’d get her
beauty products and
cleaning supplies.
She acted as if the
cameras didn’t apply to
her.
I was all about
the *****.
Often I wouldn’t even know
what I was
getting.  When we got  
home
it would be a
surprise to both of us.
“Oh look honey,
merlot, what goes  
good with that?”
Or,
“Have you ever had
pinot noir?”
Stealing with her was
such a rush
like that first line of  
really good *******.
We felt untouchable,
invincible,
until one night
we found out we weren’t.

What would you do if you were blown by
the wind and the Cherry Blossoms.
And you were giddy on the nectar from all
the flowers that fell from the sky; Orchids, Irises,
and Tiger lilies...and all you could do was smile
and laugh about how great the heavens are.

Your love is like a frozen bird, a
feathered stone falling from the sky.
I wish it didn't die.
It should be flying, and soring, and
healing, against the warm blaze of
the afternoon sun--weaving and
diving through the coolness of the clouds.
But it's gone, and all it can do is
plummet and take a few more
birds out, on its way down.

I will not be
subdued.
Cages don't suit me.
I have to be free.
Fly
run
sing
dance in the
open fields, swim
in the river with
the fish and water snakes.
My soul can't be
taken without my permission.
The access is denied.
My heart isn't yours to
mock and ****.
I will rise like
the phoenix from
the ashes and sail on against
the azure sky, free and
untethered.
Resurrected
I'm back from the dead.

Life is a series of tiring verbs
as I wade through the
ashes of orchids.
I'm a vagabond with
a ragged soul
coming for you *******
a lonesome road.
I float aimless,
like an acorn in
a mountain stream.
The death of dreams smells
like autumn leaves,
lonely as driftwood.

Home is not going to be
a white door at the
end of a sidewalk.
It's bigger and broader,
and can't fit behind a
fence and walls.
It will always be the
sum of my
memories and longings.

Home is walking the streets,
hand in hand,
with our son on my shoulders.
Home is lying in
the grass with your
fingers in my beard, and hope
oozing from your blue eyes.
It's eating sushi and laughing at
our accidental touch of hands,
reaching together for
the last California roll;
avocado safe at
a sun dappled table.

I'm drifting lost on
a southern wind.
When I'm with you again,
wherever that is,
I'll be home.

Sometimes the laughter between  
us could heal a *****.
He would say, “Dear God, my nose is falling  
off, but these two ******* are funny.”
Jesus would say with a grin and a snicker,
“Go in peace my son, you are healed.”

I loved laughing with you Mare.
I felt like a kid that just watched
a five year old accidentally hit his dad in the
nuts with a plastic bat.

When you would get really hysterical,
you‘d make these strange snorting sounds
with your nose.  Our eyes watered like faucets.
I’m crying too now Mare—but not  
from sorrow.  My tears are from sheer joy at
our comedic silly days in the sun together.
I hope you’re laughing too.

It's heartbreaking and
raining in my soul.
Love isn't enough.
It's a swamp in
her heart,
mold, mildew, decay.
She wants my ***** in
a jar.
A gelded pony to pet.
I'll always be
a stallion.
The fields are
my home,
not her fenced in façade.
I'm galloping for
good
into the wild.

Bowing to the ***** god,
I lived like a pleasure
seeking missile, propelled
toward all things ME.
Empty as a carcass.
Hungry as a desert.
I didn't see the
strawberry moon of
summer.
It was me and the
Ferryman, until the
river ran dry.
Eternal winter for
the soul.

And then

A revolution in my
being.
A total shift in
my values and
perception.
The Creator purchased
my dilapidated heart.
He moved in and lives
there still.

My home, on the outside
might look like
a shack to some, but inside
it's a mansion with the
most sublime bread you
ever tasted.
Fruit trees in every room.

If her eyes were
a street,
they would be a
dead end.
There wouldn't be
a sign.
And if I drove
into them,
all the promising
landscape
and stunning scenery
would come to
an abrupt stop.
Such lies...
Those
dead-end eyes.

I like
my shoes; they are
the only pair
I have.
I've walked miles in
them.
They have
got me around for years.
My shoes are
falling apart.
They should have
quit on me a long
time ago.
Strangely enough,
people compliment
me on them.
They don't see
that the soles are
worn thin, or that they
smell like cat **** and
rotting flesh.
They don't see the
blood stains on
the canvas and the
piece of broken glass stuck
in the heel.
Nope,
they just say,
'Nice kicks;
they look good on you.'
I can't afford
another pair right now,
and even if I could,
I wouldn't spend
the money on them.
No, I like my
shoes, even with
all their imperfections.
They have seen
a thousand sunsets and
carried me away
from many heartbreaks.
My shoes have
run
walked
and sauntered through
snow
rain
and all kinds of ****.
My shoes have
saved me and
betrayed me.
And they have
tasted every type
of ***** known
to man.
When I'm dead and
gone
I hope someone
burns
my shoes and throws
the ashes in
that long lonesome
river, under the bridge,
where men
live and fight
and dream.

It's sad.
HP feels like a ghost town
again.
What if all of us, in a
concerted effort supported
each other as poets?
If we have nothing else,
we have each other.
And we can back each other
and read our dying art, and comment.
PLEASE.

I watched a young
boy beat his
chest and scream at
the dawn until
the liquid sky drove
him away.
He chased thunder
and
butterflies with the
same enthusiasm;
oozing a lust for
living in his chasm
of youth.
Ten years full of
questions and scabbed
up knees, freckled dreams
running across green fields
and sunlit meadows.
Golden little life,
resting beneath a
willow tree to sip the
sweetness
from the clover and
honeysuckle flowers.
Hours full of pocketknife
afternoons, whittling sticks
into arrows to
shoot at the moon.
And after the rain
oh sweet green youth,
run barefoot with the
wind
toward a sinless
sky.
And live, live
live, for tomorrow
will come with a sigh.

We became friends later.
On that day we were
combatants.
Two kids trying to
prove their manhood.

I circled left, shot a quick
jab.
I missed and Doug laughed.
He hit me fast with a right.
Laughed again.

I circled right, this time my
jab landed.
There was a gush of
blood from his nose.
He wiped at it, and said,

My ******* sister hits
harder than that.
I hit him again.

I'll bet she doesn't hit
harder than that, I said.
You'd lose that bet, Doug said.

Mr Jester came running out of
his house.
You boys quit fighting and shake
hands right now...I want you to
say something nice about each other.
He motioned towards me.

Well, Sir, Doug here has a tough sister.
She hits harder than most boys,
at least that's what I heard.
Doug grinned.

Oh, a regular Marciano, huh Doug?

Oh yes, sir.
She can be a real mean ***** when she
wants to be.

Mr Jester said,
Hey, watch your language you
little degenerate.
Who do you think you are,
John Dillinger?
Doug muttered some
sort of apology.

Go on, the old man said, it's
your turn.
"Tommy boy here has a
great curve ball.
He got five strikeouts last week."

"Hey, that's great son, you gonna be
in the major leagues when you grow up?"
Yes, Sir, I said.

Someone was mowing their lawn, and
the smell of fresh-cut grass filled the air.
We were young, green, and tough.

"How about you son, do you want to play
in the big leagues too?"  Jester asked.
Doug grinned.
"No sir, baseball isn't my thing.
When I get older, I'd like to ***** one of
your daughters."

Doug took off running.
He ran track for the team.
100-yard dash if I remember right.
I could hear Mr. Jester just
barely over the lawn mower.
Come here you rotten little
*******.

I fraternize with chicks
half my age because I
want to get laid and
feel young.

I here music in
my head when I
look into her
eyes.
It's like a
soundtrack to love.
A cross between
Van Morrison and
a Gregorian chant.
When I touch her wet
cotton candy lips,
I here the
oceans and lions roar.
The waves crash to
shore in my heart,
and I listen to the
mermaids song.
And in the end,
her footsteps,
and her heart beat,
and her apple blossom voice
are forever my
soundtrack to love.

I met her on the beach in
Coralville.
Actually, it was just a long
strip of sand below the dam.
I was crashing with some
friends that had tents set up
back in the woods.
She wore a red one piece
swimsuit, big sunglasses, and
she drank warm Chardonnay in
the sensual summer sun.
We got drunk together and sang songs.
We walked hand in hand to the
liquor store as evening fell on us like
a warm blanket.
We got back and found an empty tent.
We drank ***** and ****** long into the night.
When morning came crashing in like
an intruder, with thick tongues, we
asked each other's names and laughed.
We spent many hours in the sun on
that strip of sand, swimming in
the river--dodging water moccasins.
When the mood struck us,
which was quite often, we went
back to the woods, and ******
like animals.
Sometimes, providence can be a friend.

The words and lines
aren't coming today.
I lie down for a nap.
I dreamt of metaphors
and similes.
I woke up.
The years swim away
like bass at spawning
time.

There she is:
naked and fickle on
the floor, *******
marrow out of
soup bones; her
*******
busy with
living things.

The muse plays
hide
and seek
like a spoiled
little child, as I
sit with
sterile white
paper.
I think I see
her from the
corner
of my
eye, but when
I look,
she is gone, like
the last Dodo bird.
I yell, "Are you dead? "
NOTHING.
And then she
appears
dimly through
the glass and
gives
me a hard one,
fierce, right behind
the eyes,
in that still small
place where sullen
shadows
dance to Wagner, while
sparrows burn and there's
a smell of
Spider Mums, and
funerals.

Then, she's gone like
the Cheshire cat.
(the grin remains.)
I get another
drink, hoping to
swallow and consume
her- to become one.
It doesn't work.
I get
frustrated, pace the
worn out
carpet, like a
caged tiger

Writer's block is
hell.
It's worse than
celibacy and
bologna.
Far worse than
constipation, or not
being able to ***.
It's like missing
the vein, or
dying of thirst in the desert.
It's like being
dead, but alive.

And
finally at
last
it's over (she consummates the deal)
and the words and
lines flow like
rain in Seattle in
the springtime.
I can
see the ***** in
the rose.
Taste
the sweet potato sky,
plant flowers in concrete, and
beat Mr. Death in
a game of go fish.
And
strangely,
it all smells like
home,
eternity,
and two-week old
puppies dreaming of
Mother's milk.

I don't need
friends like Judas and Brutus.
It seems as though they're everywhere.
I've even had a few Delilah's in my life.
They have exploited my
weaknesses for their own gain.
Whether it's a knife in the back,
a few pieces of silver, or a kiss
they are all betrayers;
the rotten fruit of the earth.
So this short ditty goes out to them
and their kind.
Stay away from me.
and go **** yourself.

I flirted with
the sun as it
blushed
pink
through the trees,
their naked branches
spread wide,
wet with dew.
Sticky sweet
dawn
winked with the
promise of a new day.
Swans mate for
life
and die in the spring.
And she
lied a little less than
the moon, and
the fog, and the
wet cat drunk on
feline dreams.
Her eyes looked like
they hated her face;
like they
wanted to
leap out, and
roll down the street,
find a mountain brook to
wash off all they had seen.
She saw too much...
felt too much,
as the fractured dawn
laughed
and flew away like
a mockingbird.

I guess I shouldn't be
surprised.
In the
beginning, the women are
attracted to the light,
the writing.
But after a while,
they hate it.
They get jealous;
as if I had another
lover.
I suppose I do.
And when I'm in my stride
I don't give them the
attention that they crave and
desire.
When the words and
lines are flowing
the women seem so needy
so greedy.
I guess it's not fair that
I devote my heart to
writing--but truth be told,
they knew what they
were getting
themselves into.