Sitting down
to write imagining
all the things I might
write about equalling
nothing. So I improvise
and write about writing
painful exhilarating precious
words fly past my fingers and
leap like acrobats off keys upon
my screen
writing is seeing things twice once
for real and the second for the blank
page.

After we kiss
his hand combs
my hair threads
through like a
harvester his
fingers delicately
draw tiny objects
on my ear then
he ends with a
tornado of fingers
swirling my hair
pulling it upwards
to his hand

I don’t
like moving
it’s just like dying
I don’t
like leaving
things behind
without me
I don’t
like cleaning
it’s like hospice
sitting or laying
and waiting for
me to move

Ideas
sit at the
tip of my pen
smoldering like
my cigar burning
smoke and ash producing
nothing. Ideas sit at the tip bubbling
from the bottom of my glass like a rosy pink
champagne bubbles float upwards like promises
made in passion full of hope and feelings and producing
nothing.