subtle as a gut punch

sneaky YouTube playlist
waited til my back was turned
and stabbed me with a montage of

smiling swooping
that one shot of you (my
favorite, introspective as you
watched the world go by from
13000 feet); we flew together once
and you filmed it (i need to get that
VHS tape converted). sweet soul you
were. still weird to think of you as a
were instead of an are.

i know you went out (or went in as the
lingo goes) doing what made you most
alive and i know it was six years ago
and yeah I’ll say the obligatory blue
skies but…it would still be nice to see you
smile that Muppet smile just
one more time.



all i can think
about is sex.
no talking no
negotiating no
romance no time
wasted just clothes
off lust fucking
raunchy frantic
hot dirty drowning
in desire and each
and all i can
think about is
how bad i want
that sex with

et tu?

so someone is
reading my words
(at least
my curiosity is
part of me hopes
that said reader
is my subject
(the object of
my desire my current
muse if you will)
and another part of
me is fucking
petrified that it

i dream about you
every night
i dream about your
body and what it would
feel like under my
hands and over my
body. i dream about
your mouth and how
certain am i that your
kiss would jolt me
back to life

eff you, Allen Ginsberg

i have gone well
beyong howling…i
want to scream

scream how frustrated
and sad i am and how
fucking disappointed i
am to find myself here
(again) where i am sad
and angry seething frus-
trated bursting at the
seams wanting needing
lusting wanting to
connect with someone
anyone wanting to be
young and thin and
vibrant and wanting to
be wanted
just wanted
by one person
and even better if
i’m wanted by the
person i want
but every day
i find myself
when i measure
and i’m constantly measuring
myself against all
the amazing
people that
surround me in
this wicked little

fuck i don’t know
what to do


ever just stare at
the ceiling and ask
yourself “how the
fuck did I get here?”