nothing
is
permanent
in
this
wicked
world
not
even
our
troubles

-charlie chaplin

don't
forget
me
someday
I
may
need
you
like
a
knight
on
a
winged
beast

I'm
feeling
a
cute
high
this'd
be
the
perfect
time
to
make
love
to
me

I
contemplated
a
lady
rightly
and
drank
my
bitter
coffee

I
wanted
to
be
the
geese
to
just
fly
away
and
land
somewhere
else

he's
my
perfect
villian
my
confidence
man
the
trickster
in
my
folk
tale

her
letters
saved
me
from
life
myself
if
even
for
just
a
moment

there
are
some
poems
I
write
with
white
other
poems
I
write
with
black

the
unmistakable
whistling
of
the
villian
around
the
corner

I
am
the
audio
she
is
the
down
beats
we're
young
americans

do 

you 

remember 

friend 

when 

we 

threw 

a 

water 

balloon 

at 

that 

creep 

when
he
stopped
to
kiss
her
neck
the
world
seemed
an
okay
place
to
be

I
may
have
a
few
secrets
up
my
sleeve
I'll
think
them
up
some
other
time

-anne sexton

I
watch
the
way
her
fingers
wrap
around
mine
I
keep
hold
with
my
eyes

can
I
just
group
text
my
sorrow
right
now
just
window
installation
it

I
do
my
best
writing
in
my
dreams
I
live
to
sleep
I'm
sweetest
at
night

she's
a
pear
my
little
bunny
bear
my
cozy
little
spirit
babe

I
remember
waiting
for
her
tiny
body
so
impatiently

the
map
of
the
river
like
a
work
of
art
the
delta
she'd
sat
on

each
night
before
bed
I
kiss
his
forehead
and
tell
him
he's
my
best
friend

let's
talk
about
the
moon
for
a
moment
look
into
my
heart
tell
me

take
me
to
the
river
drop
me
in
the
water
I
sang
to
myself

grey
white
purple
black
they
seemed
content
even
when
I
disturbed
their
flock

I
told
the
universe
what
I
was
planning
I
had
to
tell
someone

whatever
you
want
of
me
just
take
it
just
have
me
you
needn't
ask

I
appreciate
that
and
would
you
please
explain
about
the
fifty
ways

-paul simon

I
would
stroke
your
tie
as
I
talked
to
you
I'd
take
your
hat
at
the
door

consider
your
moustache
twitched
I
wink
at
you
you
are
magnificent

-anne sexton

I
don't
remember
her
smelling
the
roses
just
cutting
arranging

I
wrote
the
best
damn
poem
I'd
ever
written
and
then
I
lost
it

I
could've
watched
that
creek
forever
between
the
sun
and
the
shade
tree

it
was
those
weekday
mornings
VH1
mysterious
ways
on
repeat

watching
thistle
seeds
ride
the
wind
since
1980
and
not
before

fear
of
the
future
raced
in
front
of
her
regret
aching
from
the
past

in
the
woods
I
don't
miss
the
city
in
the
city
I
don't
miss
the
woods