Imagine you hand
a sad, lonely girl
the keys to happiness,
hours of joy she can create
for herself
with others, alone
or simply by watching others.

She'll chase that,
dogged and crazed,
with twisted ankles
and weak lungs,
because once you get that needle
in her arm
it will never come out.

I stare across a floor
of black and white
while music thuds and pounds
and feet move in rhythm.
It's late at night,
and I can't help but think
I could do this for the rest of my life
and never grow tired of it.

I win,
again,
for the fifth year
in a row.
The constant campaign
to write more poems,
leaving more words
scattered behind me,
to improve a craft
that will never win me gold.
Day by day,
a skill strengthened
only in the pursuit
of joy and truth
improves.

There is peace on Earth
and peace in my heart,
every scrap attributed
to the Light

To the Fire

I am not finished with you,
m'sieur,
who burns and shines,
bringing me joy
as a happy coincidence.

You,
the dark-haired Apollo,
the lithe Adonis,
the living Enjolras-
you are a fire
lucky enough
to take roost
where the earth cracks
and something rises
unbidden
to feed a flame.

Burn still,
for what I thought would damage me
has left no trace-
and now I wait out
the end of this spark
that I might befriend the fire in earnest.

Reste.
S'il te plait.

To the Lumberjack, for the Last Time

This is the last poem you get,
sirrah,
who never asked for any
in the first place.

I only showed you this once,
and only one piece,
so I suppose it's a sign of your respect
of my secrecy
you never looked further.

For all you look and smell
of earth and here
you are air,
to bluster and fly about
with care only for your path.

You were on the fringes of my life
and then you were everywhere
and then gone again;
a windstorm that left my house a mess
but one easily righted
and it's as if you never were.

So the earth will smile
to see air,
knowing it means nothing
but amitie
each time a breeze wanders through

To Dan Corrigan, for the last time

This is the last poem I will write you
if I have to cut of my hand
to ensure it.
I doubt you read these anymore-
if you do,
I miss your friendship
and still have the sonic screwdriver you built
(it died though,
and the mug handle broke again).

(Also,
if you have that poem I gave you still somewhere,
I would appreciate a copy.
I handed over the only rendering,
and I'm wondering if it's as good
as I remember.
All I have are drafts in a sketchbook
(remember when I thought I could draw?
HA!))

It sticks me still,
deep somewhere,
that I had to betray my dearest friend
to save myself.

I guess I loved you enough
to step in front of a bullet,
a car or whatever you needed
and die for you-
but I didn't love you enough
to choose a slower death.

They say love
is living for someone,
choosing each day
to do things to lift
the other above yourself
so that you both see God.
I did that,
I think.
But it's not love
to suffocate yourself but still breathe,
cutting off bit by bit
that won't grow back
in a self-destruction
that only leaves you
lower
than when you started.

I guess in the end,
the self-preservation,
the self-centered but not selfish
pieces that make up my core
won out
over the endless toil I would undertake
for my people.

You were one,
you were water
and you drowned me
but I guess I really am a fish after all
because I haven't stayed drowned.

There was no malice
in your actions,
I know.

I miss you.
The easy friendship,
the laughter and the support.
I'm sorry I got back up
faster than you.
I'm not sorry for breaking that loyalty.
I would have lost either way,
and you as well.
Better this way,
to mend.

I hope you have kept
the Argentinean accent you had in French.
I hope you still bake your own bread
and craft impossible things.
I hope you learned to sing in front of people,
and create and grow.
I hope you're not reading this.
I hope you mourned our friendship faster.