Every second he is missing,
The wheels of my heart whine
With the ache and the longing
For his hand to hold mine.

Gone a man, beaten, and brave
I embodied his wine.
God dug him a grave—
I made it a shrine.

The way you hate me
Just tears me to ****** pieces.
She says they’re all lies, but I
Know it’s all very true—
True I shouldn’t have loved you
And your bubbling smile
And the way your touch goes
On for ten miles
And I wonder why I
Just sit here and cry
On my dampened bedside
Because you hate me inside.

These little children
Run through my head:
Nameless, naked
Bare to the bleached bones
Mouths agape
Hungering for meaning and
Eating it up like air
Screaming and clawing
In the dead of night
Pleading for light
And a home to stain—
So I fed them paper
And they left my brain.

I hear San Francisco loud and clear—
The trolleys chug by in childish gulps,
The steep hills catch the wind's yelps,
The cramped stores house a profound history.
The city cries tears of joy so subtly
That people throw gentle smiles to the earth—
A postcard has never wept into such reality.

Like the shutter of a metal screen,
The sun descends in a tessellation as
Brilliant as the city who silently sleeps
With its grand eyes wide open—
A father and mother at last.

I see dead bodies
Where libraries used to be

I take nothing seriously
Not even this poem
Or the literary value
I don't give a ****
(love me)

Traditional structure is a prison
And I am Andy Dufresne

My pen is a knife and
This paper is skin,
I cut myself open to feel
The poetry ooze like red art

Stardust settles around my livid woe
Hopelessly like divine snow

**(I bury myself in all my falseness—
A poet was never there.)

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.