Everything in my head is the sound, word
without shape. I’m waiting for this to become a thing,
or for it to make me interesting. I practice
getting my handshake right so I don’t have to say anything.
I’m not dreaming this. Poems are what happens
when you close your eyes. Stars are fathomable.
Last night I dreamt I was writing poems about waking up.
The night is coffee. The stars are home. The woman you love
is dancing alone in the bedroom.
I’m looking for a place where I can fill some space. I fill
lots of space. Lots of pretty fuckin’ space.
Yesterday she asked what must “happy” look like for me?
I gave her the answer I thought should go on my epitaph. This is why, she tells me, I can
only speak in front of a microphone.
I’m not afraid of you.
I’m just afraid you’ll make me
see me, and one of us will have to walk away.
Part of me feels I deserve a cookie for saying that.
A man’s ability to feel is overvalued in Art.
I’ve cashed in on it.
Every woman who loved me
hates me a little for that.
I owe something more than poems. Maybe a really good
chili recipe, or a second word for thunder. Or maybe
more sentences that include the word “you.” I dig you.
You make me happy. You can be a real dick
sometimes. Watch how I love you, asshole.