I WANT TO WRITE A LOVE POEM
 I wanted to write a love poem
 but each poem
 seems like an obsession or possession;
 the love defined
 by a blind mind;
  
 and a heart is intoxicated
 on images embedded into us
 and a dual love 
 is a dangerous journey 
 into the degeneration of sexuality
 into madness;
  
 which makes us addictive to genitalia,
 makes us crazy
 when fed within boundaries.
  
 We chisel away the others
 until they are the image
 that we call out of stone;
 but the stone has been crying
 and the image; well, 
 it is cracked, missing an arm,
 and has a torso with no head.
  
 They say God is love;
 but this god feeds on us
 needs blood
 needs rape
 needs violence
 needs wars
 needs rituals
 needs us to be mindless.
  
 I want to write a love poem
 but this world thinks 
 love is a battlefield.
  
 This poem isn’t a chemical reaction.
 This poem is not drug induced.
 This poem is not madness.
 This poem wants to return to Silence.
  
 Silence is where 
 Love is;
 where all things are connected
 so I will not write a love poem
 to be made into a battlefield.

 FINGERS DRIPPING WITH POISON
 Every time you weave words together
 to make a sentence,
 a story,
 a play,
 a poem
 it reveals a prophetic vision;
 a song.
  
 You wonder will critics pan it;
  
 and you hear their finger
 dripping poison
 as they bang away on the keyboard;
  
 yet, you touch pen to paper
 and release.
  
 Most people are busy
 running around outside themselves
  
 and don’t hear
 when the Unknown Father speaks
 without 
 needing a Critic’s Choice Award.

 WHEN OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS
 There was a knock at the door.
  
 I looked at my cell phone:
  
 6:30am!
  
 Who the fuck was knocking on my door?
  
 My bed was empty
 so it wasn’t a jealous lover’s partner;
 and it was too late in the morning 
 for a drunk tenant to miscalculate
 where they live.
  
 I opened the door.
 Didn’t think to look through the key hole.
 It was too early for psycho stabbers.
  
 No one was there;

 - had opportunity knocked - 
 and I spent too much time calculating.

 THE MAN IN THE MOUTH
 Every man that comes out of my mouth
 will have no commonality
 with the mundane.
 No seeds will be cast on rocks.
 There is no station in life
 that will enslave my orgasm
 into a dictatorial space.
  
 The Man in my mouth
 is in a redemptive space
 but most would quarantine
 this pregnant space,
 categorize the touch;
  
 and homeless gestures
 are premature ejaculations 
 of imagination, 
 and
 fifteen minutes of face time
 is allotted to strangers.
  
 No one wants to see 
 what is in front but sidestep
 into an intoxicating view.
 Hallucinations are
 a short-term ecstatic high;
 and a choice drug
 will not stop the flooding verbiage
 of demon/angels
 coming out of your mouth;
 but being ignorant and blind,
 your pronunciations are made flesh.
  
 So, choose carefully;
 the men that come out of your mouth.