Identity Crisis 

If you hold my hand,
can you feel the words
just beneath my skin–
Ink pulsing in my veins?

When your eyes meet mine,
do you see the lines
flying through my head–
poems too quick to write?

When you catch my breath
with kisses from your mouth,
do I taste like rhyme–
or dissonance and doubt?




I am the Hollow


My flesh is a bowl
— words dripping
from the brim.

I am the place
where words breathe,
beat as a pumping heart.

I am a cavern —
empty, and full of
echoes and bodies,

spilling out words.
They cry in pain,
dance in celebration.

I am where words go
— to mingle, and to flirt
— to kiss, and to fuck.

I am the hollow,
and I am the spoon,
dipping out language.

I am white linen —
a bed dampened
by the sweat of ink.

I am the cup —
words — the elixir,
the heat and the cool,

from which a soul sips
reason or rhyme–
sometimes both.

I am the sanctuary
where verses pray,
incantations rising.

I watch them slip through
cracked, stained glass
— a poem taking wing.



He is Speaking Poet, Once Again

He has taken to conversing with me, in lines of meter and rhyme, even slipping into free verse… and I am falling for him again and again, after all this time…


Adrenaline may fade
Love marks the soul
As long as life

Attraction may reduce
To dim coals
The brands always remain

If you know,
Even after the stanza ends
Your course is eternally altered

Blindly we caress and explore
Our new reality
Life changed by our encounter

With the glow of the embers
We explore our new selves
In the dull glow

Through ink, passion and pain
We are transformed
Into new and beings

To restart with new forms
The brave will embrace
The change and reignite

— a man who loves this poet