no love for myself,
only vicious, stupid lust,
meeting myself in strange places and
hoping my wife doesn’t find me like this.

there is no love for myself
only the tearing of clothes,
the false promise of satisfaction and
a deep hunger for more.

there is no love for myself
and this story does not end well,
I refuse to learn any lessons from this,
I burn the wounds shut before they heal.

The movies say it pulls you in and under,
drowns you quick,
crushing, suffocating, a bad death.
The truth is worse,
you don’t fully sink,
your legs just get stuck, and then
the sun beats down on your face,
the rains come, the nights go,
the jackals pass the periphery of the pit
and watch you with sad, hungry eyes,
before resuming their scavenge.
The truth is always worst.

This kind of love is deadly,
this kind of love is trite,
this feeling dwells in starless places,
this feeling deepens the night,
your legs wrap around my waist,
my hands wrap around your throat,
the catch of breath, the empty confessions
divulging much and no truth of note:
I love you,
I love you,
and lesser lies;
I love you,
I love you,
and these constant,
(supposedly) final
goodbyes

we gave them names,

although they don’t know the value of it,

and they hop in once or twice a day beneath

the feet of elderly folk exchanging coupons

for apples and candied peaches.

Some people shriek at them,

some people coo, and bend to look

or pat their lumpy bodies.

they don’t cause bother,

but still some people shriek.

Gentle fledgling of a feather unknown
fallen out of its nestled home
and lost, wandering through reed and willows
under blackbirds’ shrills and bullfrogs’ bellows
on stilty legs and useless wings, still,
into the wetland chorus it sings.

Gentle fledgling lost and alone,
no chance now of returning home.
The hawk, the owl, the grubby mink,
will spy and stalk and stealthy-slink
and though this bird will never fly
the moon will rise, and time goes by.

There is no mercy in this forgiveness,
no grace,
this forgiveness is a weapon,
you will know, yes, in every coming moment,
how desperately you deserved retribution,
how just and true my vengeance would have been-
ah, yes, this is my sword, my axe,
the ram battering down the gates,
when you look to me I will be
sharpening the edge of my forgiveness,
contemplating how dreadful I deserved to be,
and you will know yourself as lesser,
and you will hate this mercy more than anything.