There is a monster
that lies dormant
in every man.
an act of desperation
to wake it up,
but for a few
than a memory.
I gave her lingerie
and expensive perfume
a few years ago.
She gave me
a five dollar bamboo plant
from Rite Aid.
I put it in the window
until she left me
for someone new.
Now it sits on my book case
away from the sun.
It hasn’t grown any
It hasn’t turned yellow either.
I don’t know where
she is anymore
but I still water it
every month or so
refuses to die.
Some Nights There is Nothing to Write About
not the machine gun fires burning puberty into earths oily complexion –
not the weather or lack thereof
or the way the stars look to a bloodshot eye –
not the pretty girl, the way her shoulders and calves
move and the way you believe in kinetic energy –
not the music in your head while you walk
your lunch hour away in Manhattan –
you stopped looking up at those buildings
in autumn, a decade ago –
not birds bound by wintertime–you see them , but do not hear –
not the way your reflection disappears in bourbon
as the glass catches the bar signs –
not the women that bloom only in low light
and need watered well –
not the Sanskrit painted on the buses as they roll through
the lost cities of Los Angeles –
not the way everybody wants an angel
but are stuck with a devil inside –
not homeless men begging in the rain –
not the Rockies like the open mouth of a lover
you make sure not to wake as you slip out the door –
not the way you made me feel when I floated through your window and you called me your prince –
definitely not how our shadows are always one step ahead
or one step behind depending on the position of the sun –
there’s nothing to write about tonight
the brightness of the moon is covered by too many clouds –