Said He (To She)

“what do you like about these trees?”
______”perhaps the friction between leaves”
“and why do you smell of shower steam?”
______”it drifted out the window and covered me.
______”i like to hear my lover sing,
______”and he’s not embarrased of his voice
______”when he thinks no-one is listening”
“i pricked my finger on your ring”
______”your hands are soft from want of work,
______”my lover’s are dark and rough as bark
______”his fingertips are like the earth
______”and thick veins crisscross down his arm”
“is he also chaste and good?
“those traits equate to naivete..”
“i am an experienced man,”
“i’ve been to spain and italy”
______”as a tourist, such things are easy”
______”no one thinks of the sacrifice”
______”of years of young, ebullient life”
______”to difficult studies as an attractive choice”
“this button is stuck”
______”leave it be.
______”i think i feel a storm approaching”
“should we move inside?”
______”i like the smell
______”of falling rain”
“i want to pluck
“these wayward thoughts
“and relieve
“your blushing brain”

______”i think i hear my lover calling”
“when again will he be gone?”

______”i hear his footsteps on the lawn”
“go,
“my dear.
“i can wait
“til our next meeting”
______”i know you will,
______”but please dont love me”

“Just like love”

NOW doesn’t matter
so long as there’s love after
I’ll forgive your wanderings
you can forgive my
selfish curiosities
when you come back home
and (first thing)
give me that look
which no one else sees
(the humble
look that says
i love and i need you)
the one that’s
us
it’s just
like love
yes
its enough
for me

“To a Poet”

poets are
94 percent lonely
3 percent in love with everything
2 percent a mess socially and
1 percent hypocrisy
write what you feel
do what you write
don’t look out your window
trying to conjure feelings
about what you see outside
when the feel of a tree
and the grass on your jeans
is worth a thousand pictures
which makes those words
you love-drunkenly typed
worth less than nothing

All my window has to offer

a butterfly landed on a leaf outside
so gingerly, the branch
bent under its weight
then a bird flashed by
and ate
the poor fuckin thing
but such is life–
so am i the one
that eats?
or dies?
it’s better to be the leaf,
i thought
and reclined in my office chair
accepting everything

“Ars Poetica”

the ars poetica is a curiosity
a meticulous set of rules for the art of poetry

“it is not enough for poetry to be beautiful”
“one can tell if the author is from argos
or thebes”

although san diego strangely escapes mention,
authors tend to follows rules habitually
considering each line and agonizing eternally
over sophisticated syntax
and smarter-sounding similes

the untiring titles insist upon
heady contemplation
always trying to be
some spinning newspaper headline
which slaps you in the face
but most often
descend upon your doorstep
while you are still tucked in bed
with a dog at your feet

i like to think of poetry as a spontaneous
stream of consciousness
jazz–
the man with the trumpet
running headlong into the chorus
fingers moving faster than the brain can process
and when he closes his eyes to really feel the music
we all know he doesn’t see anything;
he doesn’t exist.