and whether this wide, wild
free-ranging love is a
blessing or a curse,
who could tell? except that
you are the present focus,
and i am dying for your smile.

"We may expect that a new discontent and restlessness will soon develop, unless the individual is doing what he or she is naturally fitted for. Musicians must make music, artists must paint, poets must write if they are to be ultimately at peace with themselves. What humans can be, they must be." --Maslow

typical scene, typical day, your hands
are always on my mind, and on days like this
i am all commas and cannot end a single phrase
without a preposition. typicality means
that i am craving vapid music, crowded floors
and loud bass beats, typicality sees you
in my mind as the hero from across the room
and pays no heed to what i'm wearing or whether
each hair is perfectly in place (because
they won't be). come and be my typical,
my argument and my proof, come and watch me
move and shake off the stress of weeks.
all actions are done to be witnessed, and
spotlight or no i need to brush this off:
you cannot abandon me, you cannot stop loving me,
it is impossible for you to reverse old emotions
no matter how hard you want to walk away.
here, look at my body: i am my own argument!
look at this, and this, and this, and listen
to my words and the thudding of my heart
in concrete ribs: you cannot abandon me,
you cannot refuse me and i will not refuse you.
i am not reacting in rhythm correctly but
over the phone and from miles away there is no
possible standard of what is right and what is
just trying to walk away. we are a pair of
castanets, ricocheting off our possible futures!
we are the beat of deep drums, distant thunder
but too close at hand for comfort.
we are violent, active, witnessed: you cannot
abandon me without leaving some trace of yourself
in my skin, i cannot weave my life any more fully
without pulling you into it. speak my rhythm
and share my words, be my argument, hips in hands
and wading across dense rooms to find each other,
find us hand in hand, we'll never grow old.

do not pretend that i am
so easy to ignore,
so out of sorts or breathless
that my words lack sting--
do not pretend to write lines
that i will not read,
or make speeches that i
might never hear.
everything you do lacks
potency, but carries much
dormant anger: your mouth
twists as you remain silent,
your hands clench
as you tune me out.
you reserve your opinions
for other ears and eyes,
your rants and raves
for someone who is guaranteed
to agree with you.
but i am not so easily
put aside, not quite so easily
left behind as you wish,
and the words that i leave now
will remain here
etched into rocks like
commandments of loss.

love is a confusing magician,
creating fairy tales out of real life
and catching us up in the ride.
kitchens are the scenes of
epic love stories, long highways
witness great battles and triumphs.
the plot runs away with us
and we drive into the sunset,
unable to see past the glare.
you are a long full chord
strummed slowly, and i'm a tall
singing melody in complement.
who knows where this road
will lead us? only that what meets us
in the end will be lovely.