The winter pushes on my heart and

I know

there’s something mean coming.

The good men get bad sick

and we hurt for more time that won’t be

in our cities far away,

chasing money and success

to make you proud.

Pride and success and money won’t take

the cancer out of kidneys,

or make the heart work right again,

but I’ll keep stuffing it in and failing you

while it takes my best years.

Cut it, break it

and lay in it,

the damage done.

A Sick heart into broken

sternum

and the bones do heal

but the man never does.

‘Babe,

I`m leaving,’

the song you met mom to.

Imagine she could see your broken heart then,

in that wretched disco,

sternum wide open and

you can’t even swallow soup right.

Everyone signs up to see their lover fade,

by slow destructive blows

or almost all at once,

even if we can’t admit it to ourselves.

The lucky ones have 80 good years,

and your nine lives started early

but have dwindled away.

Do you have a good few years left?

Can you take it for another decade,

or maybe, greedily, two?

I’m not ready to lose you, dad,

please don’t tell mom you’re leaving.

Remember burning bright,

the rambling man,

buried somewhere in comfort,

warmth and

the cure for loneliness.

There is no cure for

loneliness,

no life well lived –

only seasonal moments,

fleeting,

and running in the

setting

sun.

The winter comes –

a welcome reprieve from

happiness –

where life finds that

‘Stuck’

that these old bones call to.

The October rain is cold,

Almost colder than the snow.

It drips away my heat and soaks me in emptiness.

The winter will come, a shotgun blast to our summer sensitivity.

Every movement automatic,

The roll of my eyes from the beaming sun

The way I circle my foot to crack my toes and ankles

And the way I thrust my back upward to try and stretch it to reduce the pain.

The ‘stuck’ I feel plagues at the edges if my life,

It eats and flaws at them,

And I decide to keep taking a step at a time.

Until I don’t.

Is that our only free choice?

No.

Nobody makes you pick up the pen,

Nobody makes you take the first step of your run

And nobody makes you learn that sweet riff.

You are the only will that drives you.

Nothing else makes you except that will.

Jagged, big, dead

Man

Mocking life with each

Failure.

The breathing slides down my

Cheeks

As I enter yours and

We are Actors

On a stage of pain,

Loss

And chaos.

You bring me back from the dead

And wilt away my edges

Until I die again.

The endless dance of waiting

For your love.

Thoughts in my mind trip

Down empty stairwells

Into sad, hollow ends.

Nothing beside remains.

My desire cuts lonely, jagged lines

Into all my better sensibilities

Until I must feel you exhale as you spread.

Your breath on my ear tells me you live for this

And I forge your body with pain that is sweet.

You were meant to hurt to love and you beg me to hurt you more,

Until your wet, little death makes you feel divine and whole.

I give and I give

And sometimes

I can’t.

I live life like a shot bullet,

Only calming down when I hit a wall or bone,

Red hot to touch and sleeping burning.

Give me the kick I desire,

Shoot me back out there

Or run away before I explode.

Every soft night gives a hard heart

Fragile hope,

And every sweet smile,

Warm kiss,

Is a doe waiting for a bullet

That always comes,

Pain filled and unceremoniously cruel.

The blood of us pours out in buckets

And all I taste is iron and

better day, forever gone.