"Confessions in the 3rd Person" 

She likes taking walks in the rain
dressed in white
with lips the color of sunset.
She prefers her coffee at midnight
when her words echo among the stars.
Building matchbox cities just to
watch them burn.
It thrills her when the world spins
even before the first hit.
She thinks death is boring.
She thinks love is crazy.
She likes snow and sand
and a bowl of crushed ice
at 8 o'clock in August.
She loves insanity
and the chaos that comes with musicians
though they never play her tune.
A poet once caught a glimpse
by throwing his stick of feelings (complaints)
over her emotional wall.
But that soon ended as
she said she would never
fall to the depths of poetry (too late).
She walks silently through cemeteries
out of respect for the dead
and everything else that doesn't move.
She runs screaming through city streets.
She despises the idea of fame
while striving for success.
She wants to rise so high that
when she shits she won't miss anyone.
She likes 5AM
when the gray dawn glitters
but the streetlights still glow.
She likes Hemingway and Salinger.
She once burned Aristotle.
The sunrise is violent,
hurricanes are calm,
and she loves life
more than her fear of living.

"Difficulty Breathing"

I simply stared at the TV
as the sandstone moon spilled in through the curtains and
whispered outdated words like
friendship, love, truth.
I should have saved everything from a perfect day.
But was there ever?
Because there is no God on Friday,
and it always rains on Sunday.
You looked at me and said I make your heart jump.
But I saw it a month from now
leaping into another beer can
and up the skirt of the next plastic slut.
You broke the connection I had with Geraldo.
The ceiling fan spun with a purpose
and I, for a brief second, wished you were a foot taller.
Midnight was a thousand miles away
and my ride was stuck in traffic
behind some woman who fought to save the dolphins
and then went home to serve Tuna Helper for dinner.
I was imprisoned on that couch which suddenly
reeked of cigarettes and watermelon.
You said you liked my chaos,
but I like the ocean and the taste of
fear you get in that moment when life and death are wrestling
under the kitchen sink
and the resulting condition of the plumbing
is uncertain.
Dust bunnies drifted across the table.
I thought of nursery rhymes which promised
quick and nimble would win the race.
Or was it the other way around?
As I got up to leave,
you blinded me with a kiss,
and my heart jumped over the moon.

"Laughing at the Blues"

I told you I hadn't smiled in a while.
You said your bed is blue.
You hate it.
The darn thing's blue.
Your color,
my favorite color.
You seemed so innocently disturbed
that I couldn't help laughing.

"Lost Causes"

I see them all around me.
Dying all around me:
Lifetimes fixed in traffic, stuck
In cubicles, filling out paperwork
With bloated Crayola smudges,
Photos fading behind lonely eyes.
Their only inspiration: 4AM fits of passion
That dwindle to ash before dawn.
They could eat rocks with a smile,
But smiles start to hurt after a while.
I see them all around me,
Dying all around me.
If only they'd realize that rain is not just
A way to quench desire, but one more reason
To walk barefoot through spring.
They lap up everything like it's salvation
While staining themselves drunk with romance
And making love in the shadows, MTV-style:
Plastic covers to their blank books of beauty.
I see them all around me,
Dying all around me.
They fall asleep with Starbucks dreams,
Thinking silk sheets will swallow up fear,
But beneath closed lids they have eyes
Ablaze with the crimson rage of night.
Satan never hides in darkness.
I see them all around me,
Dying all around me,
Under a blood red sun. They wait,
Stranded on the highways in SUV's,
Never going home to their American dreams.

"Rainstorm" 

It's been raining all afternoon.
Large drops fall
lightly on my head and my bare shoulders,
warm from the summer day.
I swish my foot through a muddy puddle
and think of you.
How you draw me into your mind.
How beautiful you are when you sleep.
How the silence doesn't matter.
The sun hasn't been visible all day,
but I'm smiling,
and the sky is crying
tears of joy.
Some say love only blooms in the spring.
I think a late summer rainstorm
does wonders for passion.
I don't always have the words,
but today says it all.
We will always have the rain.

"Silent Tears"

you sounded scared
the voice i know so well
was trembling
you tried so hard to hide them
but i could hear your tears
i always could
they left puddles on my heart
reflective of your divinity
the attribute you incessantly denied
but always shone through
every falling tear
caused a ripple in my soul
spreading out
engulfing me
your sadness is my own
i too lost a love
and so i knew you wouldn't call
if you had wanted to die
you left me
with tears in my own eyes

"Why I Didn't Say 'No'"

wanting hope, not love
longing for a gentle word
hands grope the darkness

"I Wish I Was the Rain"

I wish I was the rain
tracing the silent curves of your back.
In the darkened room it soothes you
slipping through the fingers
of your outstretched hand.
You open your windows and doors
to the rain.
Would you open them to me, too?
Lightly, drops cling
to your lips and nose and chin.
I envy them.
I wish I was the rain
soothing your racing heart,
cooling your burning flesh,
touching your very soul.
I see you standing,
mouth wide open,
arms spread wide
welcoming the sudden storm and
I wish I was the rain.

"Long Lost Innocence"

Doe brown eyes peer out from behind thick lashes.
Thoughts twist and roll off his tongue,
laughing at the world, silently cursing.
His words mask a sadness
that he's tried so hard, so long
to shatter. Compassion and forgiveness
choke in the back of his throat.
Torn flesh, bruises, marks of possession and pain
cloud his memories of childhood.
Yet, even if he can never speak "I love you"
to the source of all his wounds,
he will never grow to be the same.
The way he touches me, so deeply
will never hurt, never scar.
Hazelnut eyes tell me of his past, of his fears.
As salty grief runs down his cheeks,
my own are covered with tears
for the boy that never had his freedom
and the man that always will.

"Speechless in a Poetry Critique Seminar"

Bits of paper litter the floor,
remnants of a first draft,
tear-stained and strewn with memories.
You can't see them on the speckled tiling.
They stick to my foot like angry mosquitoes
that refuse to be deterred.
Tiny scraps of tree-flesh are all that stand
between me and her,
yet I cannot bring myself to overstep them.
My mind floods. My tongue does not move.
Every thought comes surging forth:
What is the theme?
What is the tone?
How do I feel?
How does anyone?
but the tap refuses to release the rushing stream.
I manage to smile across the scattered destruction.
She blushes.
She knows that I know
the power of a word.