Whole

do not laugh at my depression
my suicidal thoughts
    past or present
nor my time spent in hospitals
    or otherwise spent alone
i am who i am
not ruled by my past
I am whole

Where are your trenches?

Where are your trenches?
Your broken places?
Where do you look
in times of sorrow?
From where do you draw
your words?
And how do you plan to
use them?

Love you right

Find me where I am and not in your mind
for surely I can't be found there
I know your mind as maybe I used
    to frequent your thoughts
        sometime
Know you're always on my mind
and that from time to time
I think I love you right

Poetry

     Ginsberg, Kerouac, Whitman

understood the importance of poetry,

words from a good universe that make the world

admit a secret: that the best way to live

is to grab hold of life

and not let go,

to love

and not be ashamed,

to write from the universal soul

     for what hides in the universe is verse.

Everyone thinks

    that not everything

can be fantastic

     but the secret is

that Everything is

     Kerouac wrote,

'no time for poetry

but exactly what is”

     the truth is that everything is poetry:

tying your shoes to go to school

a cool breeze on a too sunny day

a lover's warm thigh

the stars,

that remind me that we all have

something in common

     Is the earth not poetry?
The wind on your cheek
     not the meaning of existence?
The music you hear

     not the voice of god?
This love, at the very least,
     not a reason to wake up tomorrow?  

Small

This poem
       so small
hurriedly scribbled
   in a pocket notebook
can it mean anything
        in this infinite universe?

Bellows

Loneliness bellows
Sadness screams
      to be heard
and how could one not hear it
as it yells from the balcony
beckoning for
         love
that will never come.
How harsh it's voice
that scrapes the mind
and kills the hopes
found inside

Ginsberg

If I die tomorrow
at least I have this moment:
    cold water
as if from a mountain stream
(really from a soda fountain) and
yellow light illuminating Ginsberg
who sits beside me
and says "live"

Totured

I don't want to be a tortured writer
I just want to write.
If it kills me
That's the art

No time

No time for poetry
but exactly what is?
Is the earth not poetry?
The wind on yr cheek
not the meaning of existence?
The music you hear not the voice of god?
This love, at the very least, not
a reason to wake up tomorrow?

Sketches of loneliness

I wish I could be with you when yr lonely
                Instead of far away
        and lonely myself

No midnight epiphanies

I sit awake with thoughts of lost sleep
the words do not come
but the thoughts like       mist
      feelings inexpressible
I can't sleep
No midnight epiphanies

Make love

Make love all day long
Make such love that none feel unloved
Make love with your speech
Make love with your thoughts
      and actions and with
      all effort and urgency
Make love with your body
and mind bent on one and on all

Is this the river at the end of the world?

Is this the river at the end of the world?
Thoughts like these that
Overwhelm my brain,
Apocalyptic poetry,
the words that end all time
that stretch            beyond all there is
inattempts at being everlasting.
Truly all maps end
and that in the end words are
swallowed and destroyed
No.

Real

I want to write in full honesty
    of myself
and of the whole world
saying fuck
       (because it's real)
and screaming to the heavens
in hopes of finding it down here,
heaven

She's so heavy

I know a girl like that
    with eyes that know,
    a mouth like an arrow,
    ears to sing to,
    and a nose to crinkle
    I know a girl like that
She's so heavy

Goddamn life

Goddamn life
that makes me scream in
pain and
ecstasy
Thoughts billowing
from the smokestack of my mind
polluting the air and
in turn
the universe

In-between

I have hope

in-between thoughts of 

death

Time

I don't like wasting time
with passing talk
or idle chatter
I like to get to the roots of things that matter
like sex,
or what happens when we die, if
you love me
and if so does it transcend
time and space,
is it truly beyond my universe of understanding?

I am alone forever

I am alone forever
and everyone can read my writing
and hate it

Something

Something in the way she sits
alone
Like a cool breeze on a hot cheek,
my world that burns,
                            burns,
                               burns.

I Know

I know I'm in love
And I laugh

Why I write

I write with a feeling of urgency
Knowing that this love will end
Like this world must end
And that this love,
so small in this all too big world,
does not matter
To her
To God
Only to me
Alone in a black sea

Beginnings

That feeling
That feeling of infinite possibilities
Like a blank page
Like a straight away of open road
Stretching out ahead of your
Car grill
Like the black night stretches
Overhead
     inviting
        exciting
            inciting
The infinite possibilities of the
Night as in the day
The day comes
It offers just as much promise as the night

The neck of a guitar, frets
Fields of possible sound
Waiting for able fingers
To bring forth notes of
Immense unexplainable power
Not just heard but felt
in the tips of fingers and
up and down spines

Beginnings
The feeling of beginnings
The want of infinite beginnings
For what is the most exciting part of
anything if not the start
Because only then do you have
The widest selection
Only then are the
Possibilities endless
Only at the beginning is a page blank
And anything can be written

Dreams

Dreams so good you feel you've
lost something
When you wake
the love you had
That brief love that only exists
in a dream
That love, everything happens
as it should
Not as in life where
the heart breaks
and leaves you empty

Haiku on Writing

I must find the roots
Of the life everlasting
Is it not writing?

Haiku on Living

Purple mountain tall
Red sky overhead glowing
Find reasons to live

Haiku on Love

All things come and go
In the end we are all dust
But still I love you