My cat's manic depressive
Who eats his feelings.
You can hear him crying
In our basement closets.
Sometimes he meows
About suicide; it's incessant.
However, the poor thing
Is mighty resilient  and
He keeps landing on his feet.

Oh How I Hate A Hiatus

Sometimes I feel like I'm in a slow strangle,
Hanging myself with a necktie.
Resigned to a life with the living dead,
Inching our ways towards the grave.
Yet our inching seems to be fast-paced,
As we're all asking ourselves,
"Where did the time go?"
In our trajectories set towards the future,
We spend our moments trying to speed
Through the monotony of the day-to-day,
But stay slow enough to clamor for
Those instances when we're really living.
Oh boy! Do we clamor. Reaching
For what we want when maybe we shouldn't.
But what's a night with friends behind the bottle
Without a little hangover?
Or the cooing laughter of a newborn
With out the tremendous responsibility of a child?
So in our collective clamoring, we should strive to live
As much as our time allows, and do what we can to break
Whatever slowly binds our bodies in order to live.

Love is a River pt. II

Love is a river
Not water from a faucet.
Not something you can
Turn on or off
or just wash your hands under
With some scented soap
That dries your skin.
No love is something else;
It's something you have to face
With no bridge to cross.
You have to roll up your pants
Or hike up your skirt,
And get a little wet.
Hell, and if it feels real good,
Submerge yourself
Like the good Reverend sang.
So why face it with trepidation?
Just approach with a sway in your hips
and maybe hold your breath
Just a little.

You wouldn't even fit in my socks,
So before you say, "If I were in your shoes..."
Consider this:
You'd stumble on your first step forward,
And most likely trip with the next.
You'd fall out of them the moment you try
To turn the other cheek.
I just slip them in and go, whereas you
Would fumble with the laces.

My soles fit me because of the way I wear them
And the way I am, so don't bother to try and conform.

Hey there little song bird
Sing one of your tunes for me.
Remind me of a time when
We both sang in the streetlight,
A tearful melody goodbye.
The final moment in our romance
of three summer seasons.

Our long duet started in that park
One warm July, when we resigned
Our love contingent on migratory patterns.
With each spring returning anew,
I turned to the west, hoping to see
Your little beak puckered in song.

I lost my voice long ago
But my screams still reverberate;
A tantrum perpetuated in echo.
In all of my frustration and hate
I have no real target; Under cover,
I blindly fire my thoughts
In this empty room.

If there were pictures on the wall,
The frames would be smashed.
Vases on the mantel would be
In pieces, unable contain itself.
Yet, there is nothing.
This room in my mind is a blank slate
And just a quiet place where I go
To let off some steam.

When parents walk their children up to my desk
And have them practice the formalities of a bureaucracy,
Just so they can gain a sense of their impending adulthood,
These children begin to understand their importance
In relation to the world outside themselves.

It's not so much about please-and-thank-you's,
But instead about what you can and can't do.
They look up at me looking down on them,
Their eyes wide to mine narrow, and my hands
Are making motions they can't quite comprehend,
In relation to a screen they can't see, or if they could,
Understand with their limited experience in this world.
But despite their shortcomings, goddamn, they are eager to learn.