Carry me out of here
with your boots clacking upon the sidewalk
and take me home.

I don’t want to remember myself tomorrow
or the way your smell, like rosewater and baby powder
lulls me to sleep.

Because tomorrow none of this
will mean anything more than a tendril of smoke
you blew when I first met you.

There are cruel bitches, there
are thoughtless bitches, and then there
is you–somewhere between.

I don’t want to remember your tit
in my mouth or the shape of your ass as you walk
out the door. But I know I will.

Unless the booze and the pot
and the pills and the train rides to nowhere
like endless snakes of love.

What was I talking about?
How can a man concentrate with a beautiful woman
walking around naked like that?

Fuck you for fucking me,
waking up, having naked pancake breakfast,
then leaving me alone.

“Bad Romance” will never sound the same
without you standing at the stove, shaking your
bare ass, and singing along.

I didn’t even mind the nasally, musical
theatre quality your voice had as I taught you
harmonies to my songs.

There are foolish men, there
are lovesick men, and then there
is me between your thighs.

You want a friend, you want
a casual, natural easy thing. I want love.
Is there a between?

You say you need to fix yourself
first. Well, fucking is fixing and we’ve both
got the tools right here.

The only real difference
between remembering and forgetting
is you and me.

I recorded some of this week’s band practice. Check out Chaka and I working on “The Way We Were Made.”

Download the song by right-clicking here. And the image by clicking here.

When you talk to my heart, do it
in dulcet tones.
When you kiss the ruby tear, do not
be consolatory.

But
bite hard, my love, and swallow
harder; I want you
to eat me alive.

She was an anarchist
masquerading as a student.

Love was a government
towards which
she aimed her Molotov.

I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s, please.

When you leave, do so
with respect
and pay for your own damn drinks.

Many have written before
about how the feeling comes in waves.

Each breath a delicate buoyancy
which keeps you alive only so it may
deliver to you the end.

I asked you would it poison me
before I tasted; you smiled, revealing
to me your bosom, from which
you fed me raw secrets that were
sweet and uncomplicated in their
artlessness.

And so: I was made
to feel their nakedness
reflected something essential
within your nature and your body.

You found me with your voice.
You held me with your secrets.

But were they secrets, or were
they just things I didn’t know yet?

Things like how good
something so bad for you can taste.

Things dogs find out only
after lapping the anti-freeze.

After a while, rejection
becomes its own sort of acceptance.

You accept denial. You predict it, you
welcome it. You purposely do things
so that it’ll become your day-to-day.

She is a “Don’t Walk” sign.
But yeah, you walk.

A person can’t get by on love alone.
Love is empty calories,
water weight, high fructose
corn syrup.

I have always had an infinite sadness
living inside me.
It likes to look at the skinny, jagged arms
of winter trees in the twilight.
It likes walks in the snow.

It likes things so beautiful they make
it cry. It likes that winter means
so many pockets, so many layers
to unwrap. So many secrets held therein.

It likes to think. Think.
Think.

These things bring it happiness–
happiness: the temporary flood
from a rainstorm that makes the ground
cover your shoes and the bottoms
of your jeans.

Loneliness doesn’t
always mean being alone.
When I’m with you.

I think that–

I think
I wanted to whisper I love you, I
did not mean to scream. I did
not mean to post it to Facebook.

But, yeah–I did mean to post it to Facebook.

Are you a cliche? Am I a mid-life crisis?
Are you a young convertible, a late model?

Is your kiss not a kiss, but rather CPR?
I can’t help but see you as a doorway
I’m walking through.

You’re an angel
and to keep you would mean to clip your wings.
You’re the devil
because you promise with your lips things
your heart won’t deliver.

My sadness is not tragic–don’t you dare
fucking feel bad for me.
It is infinite, but it is also
very content with its nature.
And it hates pity.

Pity angers it, love fills it up
for a while. Like a decent meal.

Write me a text, sing me a new tune.
Make me a recycled song–I don’t
care, just pay any attention to me
at all.

Your breasts are fountains, your pussy
a well. God is an IKEA furniture
designer and made sure all your parts
fit perfectly together.

Your mind is a spring which feeds into your mouth
all sorts of youthful, purifying wisdom.

I want to irritate your chin with my beard
from all the making out.
I want my dick to hurt from too much sex.
I want my stomach full from eating,
my mind full of your voice,
my mouth exhausted of responses.

I am not a decent man
unless I can be indecent with you.
But this can’t go on forever:
this waiting, this touching
of another woman’s breast. This
kissing of another woman’s
hips means nothing
when, as I fall asleep in her
arms, I dream of you.
This kind of life is not worth the
breathing–is it?

It cannot be sustainable–can it?
Think. How long.
Think?

Unhinge your wings and help me
feel my way through this.
I am only human; I cannot
see that far away.