i.

t.h.e.r.e.w.a.s.o.n.c.e.a.m.a.n.
w.h.o.i.l.o.v.e.d.
b.u.t.w.h.o.h.e.l.o.v.e.d.
w.a.s.a.w.o.m.a.n.s.o.
i.r.i.d.d.l.e.d.m.y.s.el.f.w.i.t.h.
t.h.e.s.e.p.e.r.i.o.d.s.
t.h.e.y.c.a.l.l.b.u.l.l.e.t.s.

ii.

the teenage poet finds
a treasure box-rather not;
it is an old book of faded
warmth, and glory-but look!
actual words, with meaning.

“Nevermore” shouts Poe,
as Frost contemplates which
road to take, and Langston Hughes
humors politics and per-haps freedom,

not lovey dovey b******* us
teenagers call poetry.

iii.

my memories are rather
anachronistic,
sadistic, perhaps, as well,
and they dot the landscape of my brain
with fleeting words:
        love
friends
            coffee
movie
                       breath
          fake
  mornings
                        bagels
              real
  homo
                 perhaps
sexual
                         counting
                  the
      pedals
  of
the
                 flower
           you
held
  not
                    for
   me
                but
for
                        your
          new
     

girlfriend.

iv.
I wonder what ee cumings was thinking
when he butchered the words so-
cutting them into pieces so that
his poetry was choppy and gnarled
like my damaged heart.

I try to relate these things
in the form of poetry
and prose,
but I end up rambling
of roads less traveled, politics,
and per-haps freedom,

Because when it comes to love
I simply shout,
“Nevermore.”