Moment of Realization

They really ALL ARE

SometimesMen.

Cry Over Milk Puddles

So you saw him square in there

the old questions/ the different passion

the color of the curtain, the sizzling size of the pain

the wall is so hard, hostile pointlessness.

The tired boy, that little boy, the less than

perfect shadow

perfect insides

rebellious echoing shouts like shots inside the box of certain decades. Ricochet.

I’m too tired to confess I want behind the curtain. There is no ok,

no ok way to get the back story and

become the intimate place where I will be the way, hooker heart of gold, the confidant in a cowboy movie, a brothel with silk on a lamp.

Mortality snack in a blanket ergo

just how much of this is him or me? I ruin nothing

seek a pretend world to bring you in to answer my questions

and…

Don’t you

Want a book out

there about you these days

I don’t have much else to offer

waxin’

I still sort of swing around

you are always there, writing.
It makes me kind of mourn the whore.

the Lady of the Mountain.
The openness, the hippie town

goddess act.
You were hoping to come back home.
Having chosen the wrong route.

I don’t believe in love but you do,

Just like you believe in swooning wordly on demand and friend to the lesbian bards and anti-social flirt boys.

community like you with
fresh vegetables and farmer’s market mama

how tired you are.
Much more tired than me.

sour in my lane

only when I smell leaves do I miss you
or when I take pills at hotels.

since I also made you look a mirror in the eye,
enjoy your wrinkles and
your wine.