sipping the mist off the outskirts again, must
be careful not to
become a planet no one has ever seen before, or
worse yet, has never
been wished upon ( all
light is relative ).

but,
i'm not the supermodel, the mogul, the genius that
i had hoped to be
by 34, at least not by
modern and scalable standards, but at least at 34, at
a relative half-way point of this life, toes
in the water and no mermaid rising
from the waves, i gotta laugh, yea
it's all allright, yea it's all
just fine.

and so with no wife, no kids, no vast
empire worth a mention, i'm rather ok
with it all, and facing little to show for this
far along, the view seems to broaden,
and the women, the family, the wealth seems to
release its bullseye on the horizon, instead
i see great skies, endless wind, and
an acceptance that is growling full
with deeper promise.

so,
the next step from here is just me, not
what you think about me, not what
i'd like you to think about me, just me, oh
yea and my cat also, this is about her too, can't
levae her out of
the true
big picture.

and i'm not sure why
i am like this.
and i am not sure
why you are not.
and most of all, i am not sure
why we cannot be
this both together.
i'm not sure why i am more often
than not,
happy.
and i'm not sure why more often
than not, most of you
don't seem to be.
and i am not sure why
i used to be afraid
to tell you my secret, and
i am not sure now
why it makes more sense than ever
to still keep it to myself.

if i cannot give away
my happiness, what a useless treasure
it suddenly seems to be.
if i cannot give my soul away
to heal yours, than
i might as well just be god.

but,

i guess i'd rather be
a powerless fool
always easy to find
in a small room, writing, and smiling, than
an almighty coward
hiding in heaven
unable to.

this belly ache
in the center of the earth
dragging orbits
and slowing down
turn times, the
sun
will rise again
but
differently
always differently than
the day before.

and so many of my dearly beloved
feeling so dearly unloved by all things, feeling
the hands of the gods squeezing
the air from their lungs, and
between each i'm sorry
they cannot seem
to catch a breath.

i can see through their faces
behind the muscles, underneath
the nerves, below
the emotions and just before
the soul..
their perfect
and lovely beauty
blinking
and going
blind.

and there is she
so busy
making the outside pretty
that she is now afraid
to go back in, so busy
keeping everything out
that she will not let
anyone and especially
herself
back in.
and there is he, whimpering
in the dark, unable to sleep
without waking up paralyzed, or
punching kicking pushing
all of his dream away, afraid
to rest for fear
of exhaustion.

and i smile for them, sometimes
keeping our tears safe, keeping them
ready.

and after our want
subsides, and after
the prince and the princess
have been found out, have been
discovered to be just still small children, and
alone, i
see how delicate the strength of love truly is, i
need the love, i
am love
again.

and if only love could choose who
among us will choose to receive it, now
that would be something
to write about.

I have a strict diet
of disturbed, delicious,
and dark women.
Like churches conquered by the elements
their
stained glass lies in
broken tears and ripped light
on the floor
around the altar.

and what it must be like, such
bent and sudden power, such
torn and sharp grace, and what it must
be like to be
a distrubed, delicious,
and dark woman.

it's almost as if
my heart weights the weight
of a benevolent forward in contrast
to the weight that pulls
from the rivers of the fractured
feminine and i
beg
to drown.

and so it is
that I cannot move
any love story past
this first chapter, and am left
with abandoned half-books filled
wuth disturbed, delicious,
and dark women.
perhaps one day
I will find my way
into the first sentence
of a second chapter and stop reading,
loving, or writing about
dark
delicious
and disturbed women.

all inside your head, all
inside your head, that black
thunder pulling down
your great skies, and why
becuase I know that you are
so god damn beautiful when
you've forgotten who you are and
your heart is given a quick
reprieve, from all of the hurt
hanging heavy on it, and you
actually
breathe
a breath
between
the terrified heaving
of your breasts, afraid
that you do not deserve
the air they
welcome.

and as I see you
in between
the balck and white shards
of you, while they splinter
into a bouquet of tears
that are too heavy
to plant ( even in
the most secret
of private gardens ).

and I just could not
love you enough to make you
love yourself, that
is my burden to bear, but where
we now meet and where we now can
find such new selves to find, it's almost
like we are new lovers, safe in the knowing
that whispers across heaven
and the winks smuggled between the lightnings clap
are enough, enough to thank
anything that gave us each other, and gave us
what this will now mean
to be.

not sure about anything except everything and
where do we go from here, fields of whoah
spreading in the palace of my belly, intoxicating
the limbs the veins the heart the percussion
surrounding the instinct with so many worlds
playing bumper cars in my universe and only so much
time allowed for this many carnival tickets, i wonder
what awaits beneath the canopy of the next lifetime, and
the cool shoulder-in huddle of and the barely lit postcard 0f an evening
at a quiet winter beach just stepped
into my head
for no reason.

i get
distracted
like that.

but back here in Venice making mix tapes or cd's
what year is it and what new world have we created to thank
this new god, or any new gods not scared by the worship of them, and my
black cat is fine with all of this, knowing the engine of my love
typically blasts far beyond the polite or acceptable standards for emission upon
this road, but we are not on the most traveled road are we, and a delicate
hammock of strings in the song that is now playing just threw me
onto a beach somewhere on a Tuesday at 4:38 pm, swirled in tropical
overcast and a life purposefully forgotten for a full crucifix-lengthed full body stretch
in the sand in a grey-rained paradise brush stroked with raw violet
and fluorescent tangerine sunsets and
sorry.

i get
distracted
like that.

broken glasses again, beginning to think
no frame or lenses
can stand up
to what's looking through them.

blazing with harsh and recycled lies
blinking in breaths before the tornado's rise
and what can we say, when we barely
say anything
when given
all chance.

and sometimes its just a sublte revolt
of the senses, sending
the spirit they surround
soaring, question
is towards what.

and I never have enough fists
to fight off every demon, guess
it's a good thing that
I don't believe in ehll.

and not every poem
is anywhere near
good.
take this one for example.

but when you're alone, trying to fix
a broken pair of glasses
something is better than nothing.