I want to be able to write love poems.
Even though love poems say absolutely
Nothing.
The only thing worse is a poem
steeped in longing.

The man writing a longing poem
is the only true kind of failure.

He scribbles “enlightened”
play-dough clichés in a scattered apartment
Vomits syllables across a frigid page
and convinces himself that he is too evolved
to breathe clean air
or seize real affection

I want, desperately,
to scream
“Look!
at your hollow existence
and collect what you can of a real artistic voice
Realize that it is absurd


Self-entitled
Bulls***
To feel noble about
writing curses to your solitude
behind a locked door.”

Never mind, I want to write

Love poems.