on a nonnock
I drove to town
 
on a nonnock
I fell down
 
on a nonnock
I leapt a building
 
in a single bound

 
 
just between
just me and
 
thee—
 
and the lovely
soapy summer’s
 
sea—
 
I know you have
never seen
 
a gyascutus
simply handsome
    me

test!

It is late at night
I look through the window toward the midnight stars and city lights
Full of happiness, something I feel I don’t have now
The fan is turned on and the lights in the house are off.
I crawl in bed and close my eyes, only for them to open again.
I can’t sleep; all my thoughts are going through my head
Or at least my thoughts about you
All ever thought about was your memorizing eyes, the feel of your touch, the way you kiss.

Poetry for love.
Poetry for laughter.
Poetry for sunshine.
Do my words create anything
other than hollow sounding Hypotheses?
Woe to the writer,
She has no love.
Woe to the reader,
He feels no joy.
Infernally and eternally,
Intermitantly.
Inevitably wandering.
Crying tears of wasted time.
Pounding fists
clenched around a web of
pain and imbedded fears.
Raging, wailing, regretting, wishin.
Lost love.
Past potential.
Watching helplessly.
Choosing indifference,
Preferring antipathy.

Poetry for love.
Poetry for laughter.
Poetry for sunshine.
Do my words create anything
other than hollow sounding Hypotheses?
Woe to the writer,
She has no love.
Woe to the reader,
He feels no joy.
Infernally and eternally,
Intermitantly.
Inevitably wandering.
Crying tears of wasted time.
Pounding fists
clenched around a web of
pain and imbedded fears.
Raging, wailing, regretting, wishin.
Lost love.
Past potential.
Watching helplessly.
Choosing indifference,
Preferring antipathy.

Poetry for love.
Poetry for laughter.
Poetry for sunshine.
Do my words create anything
other than hollow sounding Hypotheses?
Woe to the writer,
She has no love.
Woe to the reader,
He feels no joy.
Infernally and eternally,
Intermitantly.
Inevitably wandering.
Crying tears of wasted time.
Pounding fists
clenched around a web of
pain and imbedded fears.
Raging, wailing, regretting, wishin.
Lost love.
Past potential.
Watching helplessly.
Choosing indifference,
Preferring antipathy.

There seems tome
to be
A shortage…
Or maybe its
a surplus.
Of what I’m unsure.
Whather too little
or too much
I am uncertain.
There is a heavy feeling
in my air
Or the light is too dark.
Perhaps the hues
have faded.
Or the season hasn’t changed.
There is a stalesness which
I can taste.
Over ripe fruit of a diseased tree
Falling to the ground,
Bursting its sour, rank
Pulp
Sending seedlings
In all directions,
Contaminating the soil
of my mind.
My senses catapult into that