I woddle upon the widdle,

And plith upon the ploth,

She glibs along,

Bloof bloof brong,

And as I woddle I fod and I wod and I vod,

My horg tivid with potation,

I hinnle and hinnle and quair,

Upon the tiggish and frob nutair,

That if leeged on mine trib and frit widation,

I would bottail any who swib or yib her flihation,

I coggle upon the kiggle,

And vith upon the voth,

She glibs along,

Zif zif zong,

And as I coggle I pog and I zog and I yog,

My vliz wollid with trotation,

I wiffen and wiffen and foon,

Upon the zollish and tret hoopoon,

That if hinnied on mine vil and zeet melation,

I would ceylees any who bleer or zeer her wilation,

I hoshle upon the hishle,

And jith upon the joth,

She whilns along,

Yoif yoif yong,

I lotzom her with wulgrew brohn and brimlers,

Until frilb noot and hollig doot do whilm her.

There's nothing worse than not knowing. 

You're extremely thirsty and come upon a puddle. You drink it, not knowing whether it will kill you or save you (it's the former). But the water didn't kill you; not knowing did. You might've died without drinking too. You'll never know.

Shredded cuticles behind chewed nails,

Hands rough with calluses,

I hold one,

The other holds a cigarette,

Smoking seems kind by other habits,

Nicotine hugs and holds his eager shy ease,

Its leave leaves him vulnerable to displease,

Friendships his in multitude,

Ones to give room,

Ones to share work,

Ones to converse,

And one to calm,

The cherry pulses red,

As he pulls in his breath,

Glows brighter than the city lights in the depth,

Patchy hair plastered on pasty skin,

Wide and muscular back,

I stroke it,

When he's secure enough to turn,

Tell him he's perfect though he's not,

His potent lack of responsibility,

Swollen by his incoherent quality,

Choices his in multitude,

Military,

Culinary,

Electrician,

And apathy,

No sense of his future,

Choose the obvious choice,

Continue to pretend others have a voice,

High cheekbones topped with small hazel eyes,

Large lips and twisted teeth,

I kiss them,

They'll kiss whatever kisses back,

I never thought I'd love again,

He never thought he could be loved to begin,

So I tell him he's human and lift his chin,

Our abounding adventures,

Travel about,

Eat foreign foods,

Sleep through the heat,

All side by side,

I'll give him all I have,

But I will go away,

Hope to look him in the face some far fair day.

I am a strangely and sharply bent coin,

Worth something back when,

And worth something no more,

He does not value broken thought,

I fit into no slot,

I rest flat on no thigh,

One side of me is torn,

Insides with blackened form,

The other is scrunched,

Unpleasant to touch,

Where's the beauty he bought?

Easier to grip,

Harder to remove,

A nuisance beyond convenient grooves,

To flatten is not to fix,

Just to bend a further angle,

My eyelids are stretched over the lenses,

Red from the backlight,

There's colors but no shapes,

Offer vague statements but no desire,

The smoke burns more than fire,

Ignoring my eyelids,

But the bones still remain,

More graceful than the flame,

And the spot I scratched,

Made my teeth turn black,

How long 'til they crumble?

He asks why all this shit gets dumped on him,

Well that shit is me,

Treat me accordingly,

Smear me on canvas and call me art,

Green isn't a color,

But a combination,

Infected with the blues,

I sing my sorry tunes,

He'll love me for those, 

'Til he really knows,

Do I know where he will flee?

Peel off when I feel,

My fingertip flakes,

The final shred of my identity,

No grip on reality, 

He already left me.

     I haven't felt like I have a home in quite some time. Not that I don't have some place to sleep; I have three. I never know which one I'll be going to when I get off work. I don't spend much time at these places either way; I'm either working or biking there. 

     I never finish a task. I want to clean something, but I'm never around to do it. I want to research something, but I'm never stationary for long enough to organize it. In short, I rarely do what I want to do because I'm always working to fund myself so I can afford to do what I want to do. I'd rather be sitting in a dimly lit jazz club, music I love calming me, writing to resolve whatever conflicts gnaw at me that day. 

     I sip a cool lemonade and gently bite my pen. The bassist has an expression on his face as if he's floating on his back in the ocean, completely adjusted to the temperature of the water and completely content with the fact that he will never reach shore. I've seen that expression on so many faces. I'm happy for him.

     He hits the last chord, bows with the rest of his rhythm section, and invites my partner and I on stage. As I sing, I sink into each low note and swim in it. I feel the expression slip onto my own face, and I wonder if the audience recognizes in me what I saw in the bassist.

    I step off stage and sit back down in front of the small computer screen. I'll only be in front of it for another fifteen minutes, and then it's back to work.

     When I came home today, she sat rigidly, a book in her lap, running her tongue over her teeth.

     "I needed you today."

     "I'm sorry; I was busy." 

     "You know that I need you," she said earnestly as she looked up. 

      I stood still, my eyebrows slightly raised and my jaw twitching. Her eyes began to water and she plugged them with her knees.

     I sank down next to her and pulled her in. "I love you, and I will never leave you." I wanted to leave her right then. I expected her to weep, and so she did; she expected me to stop loving her, and so I did.

I drive to school,

I bike to work,

I walk to bed,

And I do it again,

Dull terribly it's,

A repetition,

Of a hasty question,

Asked by a small rounded world,

With an abstract answer.

     The sidewalk was carved between a parking garage and the road. As I traversed it, I saw an old woman in a wheelchair. She was stopping every few feet to adjust her grip on a large flat box she was trying to carry. It looked new and slippery, so I thought perhaps I should help her.

     In my head, I stopped just before I reached her and said, “Can I help you with that?”

     “Yes,” she replied with a warm smile. I took the box from her and carried it into the parking garage. She directed me to her car, and I easily lifted it in.

     “Thank you,” she said with another smile and a touch of my arm. And I was on my way.

     But instead I walked right past her, on the sidewalk between a parking garage and the road.

With abetting sleep,

Inconsistency in the chanting mind,

The moon dares try to comfort me,

Whenever I dreamt,

I always awoke,

And tonight I had dreamed of the future,

And so I opened up my eyes,

To a dark room with an open window,

And across from the pane a closed door,

Before the window,

My back to the door,

I looked to the moon who lit the clouds,

With a wished silence,

And inflammation of every sound,

The moon begins to speak to me,

Crawling over only slightly,

Tree in the sky and fingers of the moon,

Within a wavering silhouette,

Ensnared there a plastic bag,

Contents unseen and unknown,

It wouldn't have been noticed if it weren't for the wind,

From the light I used to write,

I almost saw the color,

Maybe even, had the clouds not shredded the moon,

With longer phrases,

And imperfection in the canting mind,

The moon no longer speaks to me,

It allows me one last glance,

Pupil of a foggy eye,

And I know to put my pencil back in its place,

And finish my writing in the back of my mind.