Love needs...

I love you
always hits the heart
just the way it's suppose to,
but hearing about
the trust that seals
love type implications
is so
much better

how we burn

without a single shred of context,
i murder in masses, have a penchant
for glasses, and will never trust
another yellow buttondown.
i'm ruined.

even as a scholar i'll turn up any turned-down
dog-eared page with a Bukoswki
poem, venom churning,
because my heart is still burning
from her hands.

it's all got to burn. every
memory, trashy television program
and gum flavor. i should have ran,
but i'm doing all the running
now.

in the scope of this life that leaps
as fast from me as it snares my feet,
there are greater things to be done
than try to name the color and shape
of love.

control

I feel as if I'm holding this weird power that I never meant to have
I don't know how to get rid of it or how to give it back to who it should
belong to,

it seems even if I offered she wouldn't
take it.
I feel like a little kid behind the wheel of a car
and I can't see behind the wheel
I can't reach the break
and the only think that
I can use to steer are the screams coming from around me

I just want to land where it's soft…or where it's softest

It's all relative now.

I wish I could take it all back

control nothing

be alone.

From Day 1

it's never easy to remember your intent
and disregard it.
it's never easy to pick up the phone and dial
then hang up when you hear the dial tone
or throw the weight of the ax as it's coming down.

There are horror stories of submission all around us,
and quests that have intentions that don't match the
strangled process that keeps us all alive

but mostly we suffer from disconnect and
the brutal yet insistant message that our intent should
not be our own and that our quest should be only for
ourselves.

it is ever difficult to convince a being to give up everyone else to
serve himself

unless everyone rallys him to it,
and cheers him
from day
one.

postage

it is not
enough

to live through letters.

i can duck behind a paper phrase,
but i can't hide face to face.

i work for four fifteen hour days
to buy a ticket with pocket change.

to be weird and lost here or there
doesn't matter -
it's in presence, in the recesses
of your fingerprints on my mind.

bring your heavy chained soul
and i will free it,
leave your constant loud voices
and we will be silent.

time touches only what stands still,
so keep running,
let the postage keep up.