the ideal lover

when I am hungry
you
feed me

when I am snoring
you
silence me

when my butt itches
you
scratch it

short lived as a moment is
is it not empty, profane love?

that word - profane love
to it I pay my debts
every line is stamped

a moment exists
breathes, likes us, 
goes on. 
to it we must comply. 

for some reason music

does not sound the same to me

as it once did

lyrics don't seem to

punch me in the gut the

way they used to

the connection is flickering

I haven't really put my hands on the piano in

a year almost

the spark has turned external it seems

realizing that

the things I write poetry and music about

that happen within me

don't grasp me

I don't find myself an interesting topic

the way I used to

that sometimes I can sob about my insecurities while my

brainface goes completely blank

expressionless

art has been leaking out of me

I cannot grasp it

the creation in me I

felt it a few days ago for the first time

did depression kill it

did I kill it

is it being reborn can I ever

play the piano

have I been killed

which lover killed me

or is it that

I am not of interest anymore so

I no longer take interest in myself

imagine if you woke up
and had grown antlers
a crown of bone
surrounding your head

High heels announce
        a concrete presence
Short skirt, short jacket
Out past 11, steaming mug
Cafe, beastbeast, sketchpad

Crash with me, sharp corner
Unbuckle your seatbelt
Unlock your ankles, spread
Yourself onto the seat
Fiddle with the stereo

I am driving 145 an hour
In my fantasy, the one with
You, a Honda, a skirt, and me

Love/Friendship/Barthes/Alcohol/Childhood Photo

On this, the wedding day,

of my oldest friend

joy, full to bursting, resolves in his gestures

this woman, his Wife

straight and curved as a flute

of champagne

On this day I am reminded

of a semiotician who once

drunkenly observed, of love,

“the other one never waits”

You who are such an authority

on loves, their hollowing,
the fullness and collapse of them,

Will you call me tomorrow after work

and ask me to come be near you?

Will we swap swigs from a bottle of red

and laugh at our stained tongues?

We scatter into pieces, so completely

intermingled

they can only resemble some Unity

quite as immune to loneliness

as the girl from the picture

who tumbles barefoot through the grass

after the ceremony

who, weightless,

never waits

time travel

the thought of

reaching out my hand and touching

yours has become so

distant

to me

to think we used to see each other everyday

the feeling of my fingertip on your

knuckle

one I'll never take for

granted again

Of ours

The fence is broken here and there

barbed wire dragged down by roots and grass

I thought it pliable, unafraid, stepped over.

The earth squelched and the sun 

was the dust off an old book snapped shut 

but bright enough to bleed my eyes 

of bad blood, so my hand I raised

to shield me. 

I heard birds and jungle-beasts

in that canyon, 

lost to the wild, groping. 

These little violets in a tin cup,

struggle to root, spurt and

flower. 

winter

thick pine smoke and

milky white moonlight settle

over the flat roofs

and empty lots

chapped lips, wind, 24 degrees outside

the neon lighthouse beams of

the oatmeal factory

string me home

I alight on sidewalks

let my footsteps flutter like moth wings

and carry me to the closest light

light here, light there

the streetlamps along

the sidewalks:

bread crumbs someone

has left for me, all promise

but no warmth

just put me in an
oven already

he cannot pretend
that he doesn't notice the way
his own eyes drift over
his body, his arms, his legs
the way his face changes
a subconscious effort

he wonders why god has
decided that infuriatingly
stupid boys can become
the bane of every existence
set as seals upon one's heart
upon one's arm

something you can't scrub away
        when you're in the shower