If I knew...

If I had an instance or two,
at some point in my life,
where all realities became true;
and this enlightenment allowed
for more of a life to be lived,
oh how relieved I'd be.

If each morning or afternoon,
let alone each depressive, hostile evening
would console me dearly,
oh how such a life could be lived.

If when I closed my eyes,
all my desires came to my aid,
oh how relieved I'd be.

If my words were more meaningful,
and hurt could be cured by them,
oh how such a life could be lived.

If our eye's sole purpose
was to return to the eyes
of a lover's gaze,
oh how the world would come together.
If our love could kindle a fire,
to lead us from lost time in being a part,
oh what lives we could lead.

A question of endearment,
isn't what I ask.
But the concluding points
of infinite possibilities--
the instance within an instance,
is sometimes too hard to grasp.

And if I could entertain the idea,
of always and forever,
getting what I ask,
the conclusion from various choices,
would be extremely stressed.

Like the syllables of your name,
I'd crash down on paper and,
ink spilling over I'd be like a sea.
I'd shout your name into existence,
and live out all my conclusions there.
You'd spill on me and I
unto you, would do so many--
such various things.

In the early morning,
you'd laugh with me.
For kissing is less intimate,
and my blushing face,
would give away our innocence.
With the stagnet sun,
we would feel so out of place,
as the humidity increased, and
our passion filled hearts,
breathed lust into the setting sun.
And when evening came,
we would simply make love.
In the dark, cool night,
we would conciously be,
feeling our way around--
bumping into furniture.

We'd figure our way out,
of days without one another.
Oh what love I would give to you:
if unassurance didn't scare me!
if you would sometimes yell to me!
and if I could hear it on the side,
of a coming wind narrowly missing,
the budding tulips tempting my lawn.
If only I knew, how you truly do,
love me, of course--and forever,
would I then, be crazed, and in love,
with you.

a cool wind
sweeps my hand,
letting me know
of what a future
can be. your unassured
state of being
is in a sense, so like me.
i'm not sure of
one thing in my life.
what it will bring
is a question
to me too.
but through extensive
reasoning, questioning,
and experimentation--
i have found a solid
fact based method of theory.
love. and that's something
you can be sure of.
it will never leave you
cold like i have.
it will never abuse you
with words like i have.
my being will forever be,
to live in your surrondings.
for every place you are,
love surronds you like a breeze
on your hand
days
before
summer
begins.

He held a wisp of smoke.

He held it like he held her hand.

But when the nights went on,

And summer came—

It all went into the air.

Among the stars and clouds,

Settling on blades of grass in the morning,

This love was everywhere;

Except for the hand of a damned man.

He mostly shunned himself,

But others wouldn’t let him forget,

Of the love and its absence.

Such hard things we must overcome!

But, the heart must desire such a thing—

And broken men with dreams abroad,

Must first travel and overcome their addictions.

What if one likes the feeling?

Oh such a crush I hold, I could break this world!

Relax is advice well received by me.

But I can’t seem to break this and all signs show,

That this is breaking me.

And so I hold my hands to the night skies,

Whispering profanities and shunning myself—

Hoping someday, I can obtain my wisp of smoke.

a morning thought

His words go on,
of a poet and his songs.
But I am neither here,
nor listening in a consciously
speaking sort of way.
I stare at the glare,
of a turned off television.
It's a window into a window.
The reflections of my peers,
sit inside this vessel
of picture and color--
now turned off to a day
of black bleak and grey thought.
It's as if the reader
of this somber poet
is affecting this television.
Perhaps the words are affecting me.
But I stare--
into the darkness that elimunates light.
A contradiction you could say,
but what magic lives
in the most realistic of things!
I can see the windows,
now in the back of the room.
Cars go by on a sunny day.
Buildings sit and bathe in the light.
But I am here: in this somber room,
in this somber mood, staring at this box
of wasted dreams.

People are now off the topic of poetry,
twiddling their thumbs talking of the Red Sox.
The words are still with me.
Words--they say such insignificant things!
How sometimes they can mean so much more.
Like, the time I heard her say, "I love you, I love you more."

ningunos perdones

Digo!
Vivo en la poesía y la prosa.
Como una mariposa te digo:
Aunque las palabras son feas.
como mis alas también, te digo.
Como…es la razón vivir.
Es apropiado.
¡Ay! La noche
tenía el tiempo del verano.
Pero esta mañana hay la nieve.
Es la nieve de tu boca—
palabras saliendo en el vientre
hacer este mundo tiene frio.
¡Mira! El amor ya no está; ha muerto.
Entre mis palabras eran las de tuya.
Y nada que me dijiste estaba
del amor. No me quieres!
Eso es lo que dijiste. Y Lloré.
¿Por qué no puedo vivir?
¿Por qué estás como este?
No hagas nada más conmigo.
Por favor. No seas como esto.
Es que tengo que vivir.
Quiero tener la primavera, el verano mío.
Y eres el invierno—
No puedo y no debo—
No hay nada como “Lo siento”
Saliendo de mi boca.
Solamente te pido
Te pido. . . No sé.
Solamente lo que quiero es la paz.
Paz y paz en noche a mañana.
Je ne suis pas homme.
Mais je suis et je suis.
Don’t play games with me:
¡Como una niña en la playa!