How Similar

How similar are our thoughts-
yours about life, and mine about death:

You refer to your breath
when you say 'struggle'
and I refer to your breath
when I struggle
to live.

To Artlessness

Drape it a lyric across those lips;
keep it on your fingertips-
my name you say is enough?
Have it clipped to your heart, but know:
I will go.

I will go
where there is no art-
no seas, no shores, no ships.
I will go where the wind is rough
when it whips
life into submission.

I will tow every line you drew
and disrupt this symmetry 
that still tries to contain me-

trap it, if you still want...
my name on a ruled sheet.

I will go where poetry
is artless.

The Reply

Yesteryears, they burn, a fire-
your mind turns to fear,
you ask:
Will you raise our tomorrows
in the ashes of past,
the blackness of love?

And my reply
is the black rose,
that will never be found:

Tomorrows
born of the past
will be the thorns that I will keep-
thorns guarding
the blackness of our love.

Celibacy

"I will do you."

Here is our Cinderella,

trying every shoe:

nothing fits, not one hits

the point.

Twelve times, the twelfth hour-

twelve thoughts

but one:

what is the point?

Starfish!

Starve fish.

An alien between her legs;

circles in square pegs:

woman, she breathes and begs-

I need the ocean,

nothing less.

Starfish,

one of a kind-

she glides into celibacy

of the mind:

I shan't find.

I shan't find.

Orgasmic Eye

Solitude has needs-

I am his orgasmic eye.

I come easily.

The Dog Wakes Up to its Tail

At the Station, by the track, is the corpse of Silence,

papering the earth with pure blood.

Layer, after layer of stories with the same ending-

they died.

But theirs aren't the only suicides committed.

Nobody knows that a dog had woken up to its tail on a Tuesday morning

and smelled for the first time, death.

Two men, in a train, had woken up to their balls

and learned that they will kill themselves as the train of life sped

along time's tracks.

The poet, journeying in a dream bubble, had sowed death in her mind.

She's waiting to reap it.

Death, and the thought of it, is a big leap, indeed.

While life, is only a keep. Our habit of sleeping.

Each moment, when you succumb to life, know that you are killing

yourself; know that you're planting a tail where you should have

plugged emptiness; know that in keeping time, you're losing it.

The Boot

The Night is Reality's boot;
existence, a bruise.

In the face, we take it,
our moment of shame
when the game is over
and we lose.

We lose it every night
and hope that some day,
some day we'll choose
death.

But all we do is wait
to be struck again,
to be shamed
into dying or living.