truly a poem says nothing
of any use.  people never learn
from someone else's experience--at best
a poem makes you feel less alone

like a small bowl of peppermints,
steamed dumplings, or
a cup of hot coffee.

there is something passive-aggressive and toothless
about poems--they are silent and stubborn,
with eyes that are accusatory bruises.
always hungry, they are disillusioned arsonists
scattering gods and ashes everywhere,

a bowl of smoke.

but that is not where i meant to go with this one.

i wanted to say that there are memories
of moonlight pouring over the windowsill
as thighs showed themselves
to a face crying into its sleeve

and love was a sin spoken in a confessional
to a priest whose only desire was to judge .
poetic words were ashes falling on the random pages
of my life's tragi-comedy.

i will stop writing poetry.

if i hurry, if i really
get lucky, i may yet find

actual love