WILL YOU COME AND FETCH ME

what's best for you is sleep, she said,

but i was already running towards her through an open field of tall grasses as if i were intending to take off and fly away,

running towards her wanting her embrace and the smooth touch of her short blonde hair, to feel her fair cheek against mine.

there can be no wanting or desiring desire from us;

there can be no self and therefore no selfishness here,
it can't exist;

there's only a bubbly creek and a few small fish fighting strong currents, dodging
dislodged pebbles;

there's only the cool mountain water and the way in which it joins other traveling
streams to become a sea;

there are only the industrious bees buzzing around violet and magenta wildflowers,

and there is only what i think is best for you and
what you think is best for me.


i don't want to sleep

i just want to sit with you and tell you just how wonderful it is to love you so much

SLEEP PERCHANCE TO DREAM

happens best when i have just finished writing a poem;

when my hands and feet are positioned comfortably and somehow
words which are almost always mistakes or lies or nonsense mix
and match and become truth, or at least something like that;

something like an index finger poking the softest part of a heart.

writing a poem most often comes simply, most often after a night with
you under the chandelier of constellations that fills up the night sky,
after walks across an ocean salted sand, the imprints of our feet filling.

for 2 hours and 53 minutes we speak through the darting of eyes and
noticeable sweat of shaky hands; the quick pace to the beat of my heart
like a novel, in and of itself.

to write a poem it's as simple as that, which is why tonight i won't sleep,
i won't write a single line, not one poem;

and definitely
not the most beautiful one.

ANOTHER FOOL

yeah sure the night arrives sooner and in the early evening it's already headlights of passing cars and street lamp's orange glows

but late at night the christmas lights embrace pine trees which decorate front lawns producing an artificial rainbow morning while the children sleep in their beds

outside on the steps of my parents house in slippers wrapped in a blanket with cold toes i make a wreck of my cigarette and exhale the smoke into a chill winter air

this early in the morning and i'm surprised to hear the song of birds whose names i don't know staying warm near the chimney

out in the dark distance there's a tall human figure, scarf blowing in the wind, top hat barely staying on, smoking a pipe

his god dreams of snow days while snuggled in a tiny twin bed

his god wears star wars pajamas

and fears his grandma

and santa claus

his god has already forgotten about him, comforted in the knowledge that if and when it ends there will be always be another winter, a chance for another

when the sun returns, later on, the man in the distance will dissolve apparent and quick

he'll melt under the heat of it all,

he'll become a puddle, become all water, and
i'll be the only witness,

i am the only witness.