it's a beautiful evening, I should be working, but it's a beautiful evening...

Before the altar wall

I lie close tonight
close to the feeling of wall
and it’s coldness
reads like wetness
and sturdier places
of high ceilings
and flesh hung ornaments
of a gross empty sacking
that proclaims man and men
are broken
whose perfect eyes writhe
upon the farthest wall
that clings to me
in dreams
speaking of a deep and mythic sexuality
that pleases me
and causes me to crane my aching neck
and imagine sacrilegious acts
tearing chisels and claws
through the soft bellies
of their perfection

untitled

I am only twenty-three
and yet I feel I am at the cutting edge
of my existence

the few jobs I have worked
have taught me a few things
here and there

but I have no great talent
or ambition for great things
just a longing to love

and while some might laugh
at this sentimentality,
when I see my father

at peace in his garden,
and his wife
my mother

watching him from
The wooden bench we made together
That summer

I can see the simple happiness
In her eyes, and feel his joy
Just to know she is watching

Then I know
That sentimentality is not a wasted
Occupation, but is vital to the
Understanding of ourselves

I am just a young man
and I read
The work of others
Without really knowing why