On Loving A Writer

Ne'er did I want to be loved;

it is a danger, this feeling.

He said that I was his bliss,

that I was a paradisaical abyss.

I cross his roads with caution,

not wanting to perish in his phatic words,

to be hung from a noose under his fingers,

or was I blind and they were strings?

But a compleat man is he:

his words you will ever crave,

his kisses are ever yenned.

Wounds he bring no cure can mend. 

Feelings

Like cows grazing on

some field

somewhere

in Nebraska

or Iceland or even

New Zealand,

like bees aswarm 

over a vastness 

of flora,

like fish mid-migration

southward, or

across the Atlantic,

wherever:

I flock my feelings,

collect them 

however, and

bring them to you.

To Fall

She looked,

I gasped.

Not my mouth

but my thoughts.

She asked,

I tensed.

Not my body

but my mind.

She smiled,

I died.

Not my life

but my sense.

We kissed,

I stopped.

Not my lips

but my heart.

A Boy In A Bus

Weary-eyed,

trying to hide

his revolt.

Lulled to sleep

by a flock

of sad songs,

not jumping sheep.

In the hopes

of being candid,

he said he didn't 

want to wake up,

so he never did.

I Do

Can we go to some church in a white gown and you in some suit and come out from it with little white stuff being thrown at us and years later we will have made a couple of life forms who will ask this very same thing to another person someday?

How To Kill

"It's quite easy,"
the wolf says.
"First, be hungry.
See, that's quite
important. Then
look for prey,
you have to know
what you want
from him, or her,
that doesn't really
even matter.
Once your prey
can be caught
unawares,
stalk him so he
will be. That he
will know what
fate lies ahead
of him at least
before he comes
to it. Then

strike."