at one point I thought

I was moderately good enough at

a variety of things. 

I pulled myself back from the hubris of

thinking I was excellent at any of it

but found somethings I could look at and say, 

"I'm no star, but this at least

I am tolerable at."

That foolishness has be drawn out of me.

It gets harder to do them, now, 

with every reminder that claiming mediocrity

was in vain. 

It isn't even really the small pond problem-

I don't know if I was oblivious or just stupid

or just tasteless,

but the lights are shutting off, row by row

approaching the small corner where

even my most intimate deeds

the ones I thought I could always look at and say

"I can not tell the world any of it

but I'm good at this" 

are fading into less than 

an acceptable rhythm.

my body could accept the small joys

at least

once. 

I thought occasionally it could give them

too.

But now not even the fibers of my nerves

communicate success, 

stuck at best in almost,

In "well, you tried!" 

(even mechanical success cannot

spark along to complete the circuit

and it's not terribly useful 

without that small success, is it? 

steadfast

 You've told me before 

that you don't remember 

a specific chunk of your life.

The details blurred away

by the chaos of it.

I remember-- some parts-- though.

I remember you calling me,

drunk (too often we were) 

(ah, youth)

and sobbing,

to tell me you loved me, 

to beg me...

I haven't told you. 

I'm still ashamed

of holding too high

a moral high ground

over defended my point

instead of admitting

I love you (too.)

I can't tell you.

In the era of our lives

when you confessed 

your memory failed you

we had come to agreements

of what we would not

ask of each other.

I agreed. 

My agreement made me a liar

and I cannot bring myself

to face the potential

that I have remained

in my unspoken constancy,

while you have moved on

from your tear slurred confession.

I will not tell.   

(2017)

 After everything we've been through 

I don't regret a moment I dedicated to you. 

I've seen other lovers rage and stew 

Swallowing what they let fester, let brew

Long after they knew it had ended. 

I could stay longer until it became

A mutual self destruction with both to blame

But hate is a younger lovers game. 

I'm leaving while the leaving's clean

When my heart beats bruised but restrained

Pen and sword each cut both ways

I still have control of my pen — and my aim? well trained

I cut only what unites us— else we each retain. 

Heartbreak is inevitable,

But hate is a younger lover's game. 

(2022) Okay but women exist.

 Okay but women exist. 

Women exist

Women with long hair

 with short hair with

 somewhere in-between hair

Women who gaze

Whose eyes flicker, touch

Women having lips, touching lips, touching your lips

Women with tits and women without, Women with lush valleys women with mutable peaks

Women who flood

Women who drip

Women whose moisture is hidden within,

Women whose joy erupts,

Women! 

I want to bury myself in that land, feel her surround every part of me,

Feel her surrender beneath my touch, 

and to surrender to her touch, her words, her scent, 

the juice of her very essence—

until—

(2022)

 My osteology aches

With this new distance.

That I cannot go to you, 

hold your hand 

Gaze upon your sleeping face

— it surely has marked itself indelibly 

Into my bones, my joints aching

And nerves seeking out the cause

For the trauma my brain detects

In your immediate absence. 

My illness flares to life once more,

Roaring down the axons 

Looking for an impulse that says

Here I am, the part that is missing! 

Heal here! Tend here! 

Nurse this part back to health!

As though the distance could be soothed like 

The skinned knee you got from 

Running so fast that your legs and 

Your center of mass lost that 

Conversational flow that allows bipedal locomotion 

With kisses, cleansing cloths, and 

A moment to nurse calmness back into your spirit

Before you race off to the next adventure. 

(2024) I want to learn how to metal scream

 I want to learn how to metal scream

Because my feelings are no longer contained 

Within words and stanza alone

And muted by internalised convention

By the cadence if I speak them

By your imagination conforming them

When they are filled

With the fire

Of fear and rage. 

I want to learn how to metal scream

Because I can no longer stand

The reaction to my words

To be that I’m “so articulate”

That I’m well spoken,

That you want to hang it behind glass;

To be saited applause

Pleasant murmurs

And silent shares. 

I want to learn how to metal scream

So that when I come on stage

In a dress, makeup, done hair

I can scream my emotions 

Sweat out the hair & off the makeup

And grate on your perceptions-

So you go home After 

and want to do Something so that 

I share only words & Not truth. 

(2024)

 Is it too late, baby? 

To flay myself, wet and vulnerable

For your perusal?

I know 

I know

It is too late