Is the day over yet? How

I want it to be so over,

this damp cold day

how your words are on

constant replay.

My theory is:

I’ll meet you in the bedroom

in the backseat, deep in the night

on the hood of a car

in broad daylight

on the pool table

after we locked up the bar

meet you at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

any time we need a fix.

The paragraphs are:

kilometers become steps

on a street

a drive becomes a walk

in the forest

a pre-dinner meet.

Catching up, I need catching up.

Breaking up, I need breaking up.

Your hands in mine (or theirs)

or his or hers.

Take me off of that list.

Take me off of that pile.

I might want to live in constant denial.

I might want to wait to find my own dial.

I have my own classroom to teach

I have my own lessons to learn

children to preach

but then you throw me a fish hook

in the middle of my day

and I bite.

I like your stars

your flowing river traps

you like

my late afternoon naps.

Conclusion:

Don’t analyze a poet

I believe nothing

until it comes from your lips

the next is just a story

unfolding.

I know how a poet thinks

blinks

drinks

I know how we confuse

reality with dreams

dreams with reality

stories with broken seams.

I know how artists

stare at the sky like pornography

erotica, read it like literature,

I know how I go out of my way

to step on crunched leaves.

Do you?

I know how music

is my muse that weaves.

I’m not that young and naive

not that blind to love

but I’m tired of all the pretense

the shaded color of my fence-

I can come to you

you can come to me

we can come to each other

right above the sea.

Did you grade me yet?

Am I a good pet?

I am too old for games

just write me something

that will blow me up

into flames

until I’m a ghost

and you bend at my grave

remember the walk

the talk

the skin

the breath

the scent

the way we fit so well.

I’m a poet

dramatic/visual/erotic.

How did I do?