I've come to regard
The twangs and twinges
Of falling in love
Like the first signs
Of an illness

The longing, the butterflies
Fluttering in a dizzy belly
The lack of concentration
Blurred vision
And the dread of realizing
That soon I will be missing work
Relegated to my bed
To moan and groan
Shaking and crying
wondering if death would
Feel nicer than this flu

I imagine its what detox is like
This falling in and crashing out of love
In the hell of it, I make promises
To eat right, lots of vitamin c
Avoid others use purell
I can't take the memories
And the missing

I just wish I had been stronger
That I could control my heart
My immune system
My emotions, my disease
My anything, really

I don't ever want
To fall in love
With the wrong person again
This unrequited bullshit
Burns like an ulcer in my gut

And I fear it will eat a hole in my guts
My soul

I write poems
that everyone reads

that many appreciate

except the ones
they are written for

written about
bled for
bled about

I write poems
on the back of cereal boxes
under my bed
on clean kotex pads
in pickle slices
on my torn cuticles

with
cracked pepper
insulted salt shakers
broken heart fragments
scattered chances of showers
mislead school girls
kidnapped puppy dogs
with a dash of

sugar and spice
and everything
nice

I listen to Radiohead and Sia
wish you'd walk through the door
or someone like you

used to be

someone like I thought you were

maybe someone
I just imagined

????

who knows

but I'll go back to writing poems
with

tar on tree bark
with rug burn
on new lovers's knees

with
broken bottles
flecked bloodied spit
with

vengeance and hope
malice and sauce in the corner
of my mouth
with

dreams and wine
and
and

it's a matter of what it's without
i suppose

with me it's always that matter
something is always the matter
because that's the way i roll
that's the way i rot
a baby that cannot comfort itself
or articulate it's needs
a

horse without a tail
or that is at least blind to it
or

I write poems
to get over you
to get over it
to live
to scratch these itches
to satisfy these mad men
who live behind my eyelids
under my nail beds
that demand

type type type type type

as loudly as they demand

bleed bleed bleed bleed bleed

I'm hoping someone
will fall in love with me
through my poems

call me a genius, peer into my windows
for a glance of me writing
smoking
fucking
dreaming
falling

again

Can't someone examine my wares
and demand to see what I hide
in the back room,
offer to pay top dollar?

I don't know if I am a woman
that normal men can hold
I doubt my charm, my appeal
I send out centaurs
I reverberate vibes
and write living wills
when I feel I am about to die

I eat cheese doodles
til they crust my finger nails
I drink wine until my lips
blister, turn purple,
tumble to the floor
and I send them to you
with a self addressed
stamped envelope
with strict instructions

to please return them
when you are through
as well as my heart
my head
my soul

sprinkle liberally
with rock salt and curdled lye
stab the heart to make sure
it does not bleed through
cardboard, so the folks
at the post office
do not question

I don't think anyone
can ever fall in love with me
for more than a few seconds
but perhaps they can encircle
my poems, and allow them to touch their soul

Woke up
Feeling ugly
And old
Walked to the beach
To watch the sun rise
Found that day
Had already broken
And the sand
Was littered
With hand holding
Snuggling couples
I turned round
And gave up
That dream
Of solitary
Daybreak
On solitary sand

The blessing
And curse
Of having
Close friends
Is that the really
Good ones
Deny u finding
Truth in
Your own
Lies

The stories
We tell ourselvs
The creatures we
Create
Are shaken from
The pages
Like stray ants on
A picnic newspaper

And once confronted
Once the curtains are
Pulled back
Once we are seen so naked
A spotlight on you
But blinding you
From the crowd

Once all the
Self deception is
Stripped away
We stand shaking
Frightened
Exposed
And can only
Whisper

You are right.

are we all just writing
to find our own epitath

and if we don't pick it
will someone else ever pick
just the right one?

oh, it's roaring, hank
it's roaring loud and clear
i don't need your loose women
i don't need your postal clerk blues
i don't need any of that ennui
seems i got my own

i think it's the ugly that speaks loudest
the muffled voice from gutters
from suburbs
from darkened brooklyn windows
i don't mean to have an edge
but yet i make you bleed

yeah it's roaring, hank
but i don't think it'll do no good
neil and i got a pact, you see
tonight we're staying up all night
eyes dry but open to sight