the pictures you leave me with,
when you leave late at night--
the streetlights not quite illuminating
the glow i've sent you away with--
the images i go to bed with,
all love and sex and adoration,
are filled with clasping hands and
catching skin and cradled hearts.
but the pictures, see, are not quite enough
to keep me pacified when you leave me--
late at night, quiet and wide open
and waiting for the world--
not quite enough to keep me from strangling
on muted distrust and dislike.
i should play them back,
should keep them neatly ordered and
stacked from left to right to flip through
at my leisure, at my pleasure--
when the body leaves its warm impression,
the absence is even more palpable.

to know you in all your seasons
whether you are bountiful or bare,
whether you are shaking in the wind
or the firmament that waves dash up upon:
to know you in all your moods
and the multifaceted natures of your soul
is a lifelong project, is an endless goal.

what there is, what there isn't,
and whether there ever was
i am an entire generation unto myself,
a cringing, crawling conglomerate.
escape routes are too blurry
to follow, too steep to step around
and harder to find than love:
with cheap red lips we find the taste
of sex too graphic for our liking,
the blood too bright for our eyes.
whether there might have been
something different, or ever was
even just the hint of a possibility
of a dream from a dreamer:
in a silo now we must build up
the prosperity of the future,
must starve and hoard now
to have hope in the winter.

syllogism:

the body is a dark room
is an empty bed
is a long dark empty highway.

the process of learning
singularity
is more arduous the third time around.

confession:
i've been trying (for days)
to write a poem about my emotions for the occupy movement.
but the truth is that my poetry
can't encompass words like "banks" or "fees"
or "financial institution" or "kickback".
my poetry
holds words like a sleeping infant,
uses adjectives like lanterns on a forest path,
places verbs in careful patterns
to bring you to an emotional point.
at occupy
i cried at others' stories,
cheered for their passion
and their faith in the first amendment.
at occupy i have been forced to confront
some of my own worst flaws,
as well as the fact that my employer is complicit
in what is being protested here.
at occupy i have made friends,
found people whose ideas stretch my own,
met men and women whose very presence
is a risk and an inspiration.

for those who think wars
are only waged with missiles and airplanes,
please consider the following:
more than 900,000 people in the united states of america
are standing, right now, on a street in their city
holding signs and raising hell.
for those who think that revolution
is a term that expired in this country in 1776,
i can only offer the polite rebuttal
that a revolution is whenever the hell 900,000 people
say it will be.
and we say now.