Perhaps

Perhaps when you wish to speak more,

you should think less.

Angry Rhymes

Can't you see the pain hidden just beneath my eyes?

Can't you hear the shaking tone that rattles through my lies?

Can't you smell the fires that burn deep with my soul?

Can't you taste the passion when you and I are whole?

Can't you feel the softness of every breath I take?

I can see, hear, smell, taste and feel

everything you fake.

Altered

We all, 

we and me and you 

we all want to look back, 

to remember the good ol' days. 

If such they were.  

If such they were good, I mean.

Do you remember now?

The innocent days. 

The carefree, careless, stoned school days. 

The Friday night football, 

be home by curfew, 

Strawberry wine, 

No. 2 pencil days.

Back in those days, 

when the temple of unrequited love lectured from his soapbox, 

lectured from our parents, teachers, televisions, dealers, 
etcetera etcetera...

I hung out with the Third Street Anarchists that summer. 

We made up conspiracy theories in the backyard 

over tequila shooters and acid tabs 

and when god left, 

because he did, 

when god disappeared 

I left that small town prison for the city of dreams, 

where the anti-existentialists rule and nothing alters everything. 

Everything is altered. 

Even here.

Maybe, especially here.

Hide and Seek

I've been hiding.

But I never said I wanted to be found.

Waves

waves run like electricity

and pound against me

like pure 

magic

these shades of gray -

bittersweet

will not go back, will

not go back

to the original sparks created

and cannot go back

again

i fall

and fade

and crack like glass 

and melt in the sand

beneath the waves 

that run like electricity

through me

Today's Ramblings

today a poem woke me and this time, this time I was ready.

even if you were not.

Sonnets or Symphonies

I spoke with Shakespeare last night.

He told me stories in iambic pentameter.

But I didn't listen.

You see-

Beethoven was down the hall playing Fur Elise.

And all I wanted to do,

Was dance.

A Metaphor

My grandmother has a jewelry box where she keeps a special ring for each of her granddaughters.

She tells me the story of mine, which is hope.

It breathtaking.  Captivating.

The ring.

The story of the ring.

But I know it means death, before I wear its past.

So her jewelry box, is really Pandora's.

Error

                              you                   ask
  how I can                      justify
                                           such margins but
                                                             as
                                                     you
                                                  will
                                                             see

sometimes the pen controls me.

Spilled Milk and Other Tragedies

It began-
A simple kiss.

Your lips bless
Curse me now
That you're away.

I was so close, we
We were so close
But milk spills
Into flesh and
Spreads across the
Space between us
In tiny ripples
Of silky, smooth softness
That is not
Me.

No use crying.