--I’M SORRY YOU HAD TO SEE MY AWFUL JUNK.  I KNOW IT WASN’T VERY PRETTY.

Reasons

There’s no reason to

be this in love. 

The mountains will

always be there,

stiff-shouldered and tense. 

The sea will repeat

the same sloppy question

over and over again. 

And, God, well, He’ll not be

going anywhere soon.

But who can help

how they feel?

Who can put up a believable

self-defense for the heart

while the sun keeps

popping up reliably,

day after day? 

When the rest of the world

appears otherwise happy?

There’s no reason,

and yet there are a million,

aren’t there?  

Please tell me

you know that,

even if it’s the last thing

you ever say to me.

Steeple

It’s okay.

No one has to win.

Let’s just not

both of us lose,

okay?

That would suck. 

You suck.

Do you know that?

You do.

Okay, I said it.

Of course, I suck, too,

though together we

both once stuck,

not so much like glue

but rather like joists that

fit and complete

the rafters in the world’s

most spectacular steeple.

The trees let me

know that today,

they did,

their leaves braying

in the unsuspecting breeze. 

Buds like insect eyes. 

Tiny sprockets of the new

testing being almost-new.

I plucked one off

for you. 

I really did. 

Pinky Swear.

I rolled it around,

in my palm,

like fingering a

wishing well coin. 

I tossed it

over my shoulder

and meant it—

that thing I wished for,

for us.

I meant it.

What the Sun Tells Me

The sun tells me

I need to be more useful,

and I don’t know,

I don’t know,

which is my problem. 

But there’s always something

about the truth that

feels untrustworthy. 

The words, It’ll be okay,

for instance. 

Sundown, for instance. 

Hope, for instance.

A goodnight kiss.

A I’ll-never-block-you-again, for instance.

See ya, for instance.

Or that slippery

I love you,

that slides

through the eardrums

not quite knowing where to settle.

Or perhaps it’s

all the things

you wrote in print

instead of on my tombstone,

those block letters that fade

over time,

yet remain perfectly readable

to the one with discerning eyes.

The Grieving Process

Let me grieve, please,

victim or not. 

Give me this, at least. 

It feels good to wallow,

to hold my head

under the clammy muck

and try swallowing. 

Some might call it

justice or retribution. 

Others might name it

dumb luck or taking

too many hallucinogens. 

Maybe masochism?

A collision of melted senses? 

Or how about karma,

Bitch that she is?

Whiney boy,

don’t you see?

It’s all your own doing. 

Who did you think

you were, anyway,

believing love could

save you when

you didn’t even try

to save yourself first?