eyelashes that fall out will

never grow back

parts of me always

gone

swimming in these words and

scanned pages of

inky text that tattoos my fingertips

crudely cut sheets slice skin

but fifty four-by-six pages hold

more poignancy than any

published work i've read

and actually paid for

michael stipe, my muse - part II

kurt cobain

listened to automatic for the people

as he carefully loaded a shotgun

in the greenhouse above the garage.

i'd like to think the last song he heard

was nightswimming--

it deserves a quiet night.

i hope that for him

in that moment,

it was a quiet night;

the moon hanging low

over the seattle sea.

my dying wish is

to be buried in warm laundry

things disappear all the time, like:
Richey Edwards or the USS Cyclops
these casualties of mystery
have finally put stones
in their pockets and
allowed the earth
to pull them in, saying
'here,  let me show you
what mysteries
you've yet to leave behind'

Then old age and experience, hand in hand, lead him to death, and make him understand, after a search so painful and so long, that all his life he has been in the wrong

the world is not golden or grey
it is a white-ish cast-off clay

Eliza to Clea

we spilt cranberry vodka drink
now I sit here and think
I love you because
    you'll excuse my cliche
    (the hardest thing we ever did)

was not to cry
oh why