Upon Seeing an Anorexic on a San Francisco Street

I have something to tell you.
I have something to tell you.
But you already know.
So I will just say I love you.

Sometimes

Sometimes it is just the art
Of the shape of the lip
That makes my heart race,
And even though I know
I will never see them again
My heart races, and exults,
And I wish I really knew them.

They could be brilliant
And how I hope they are
Or an artist, that would just suit me
But I don't know and still
I want them so.
I want them so.

Sometimes the curve of a lip
Fills us with consuming fire
I don't know and don't care why
It is just satisfying that it is so.
It is so.

Sometime Trauma

Sometimes trauma is like this
I smile and talk and gently protect the world
As I wrap around pain. I don't cry. I don't scream.
How are you this evening? Read anything interesting?
My pain wants me to double. I smile. I lie.
Who wants to know that I disassociate?
Who wants to know of my images of violence?
Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Poet no More

Such fear. A few days
Or weeks
Of not writing poetry
Might mean what?
I can't even look at it.
I don't want to know.
My fear drives me back
To write again and again.

Sketching is too much sketch

The contrast of blond and fair
And everything else black
(Well not the shoes.)
Is interesting, but
Hard to sketch, plus
She's too close, the creep
Of looking (staring) from
Three seats away is more
Than I can endure,
So my sketch moves to
Poetry, to my words and
Then, contrasting again,
The feminine looking girl
Cracks her knuckles and
My brain leaps for joy upon
Exposure to my assumptions.