I believe, I believe
my song
hums like it’s poetry

I believe
the singer
hums like poetry

I’ve been standing in the nick of time for so long
I’ve been waiting like it’s my rainbow
Someday, my song

I believe, I believe
I believe
I just want to talk about myself

I feel October having its way with me again

I smell
the hum
of electricity

I believe
are my best friend

Someday, my song
in the nick of time
humming like poetry

8 November 1990
Age 21

Limbo (Sunday Blues)

Somehow, I’m weightless
and not for real
with exaggerated claims
of what’s mine.

Bent, turned, torn,
I’m not yet healed,
but how am I injured?
Wings that have never grown can’t be broken.

Burning in Sunday blues,
vomiting happiness like poison.
I’m still in Limbo,
in resembled darkness.

My wings grow,
beyond my flesh,
Pain is medicine.

The past has passed.
Former saviors have become mortal.
Torments I nourished starve.

But Sunday blues return:
happiness is just poison.
I’m still in Limbo.

16 December 1990
Age 21

Paint Me Gold

Rival flowers
up at all hours
killing time and making plans—
hold out your hands.

Spilling out and
spiraling down,
fragile, cool, and clean.
Trust me.
I trust my instincts:
Paint me gold.

Up at all hours
making plans for profit—
hold up your hands.

Trust me.
I say my prayers
although I don’t believe.
I trust my instincts:
Paint me gold.

23 May 1990
Age 20

Let Him Die

He’s there on the sidewalk
lathered in his own shock
I’m surprised he can still talk,
pleading, “My love was not a lie!”

Let him die;
let him die.
You may ask me why
I want to let him die.

You see, just years ago
we used to have a show
called “Who Loves Who More
(and Who Won’t Try).”

I was such a newbie;
he knew I’d work for free.
He said, “Say goodnight, Gracie.”
I said goodnight to me.

So let him die.
Let him die.
You say let him try,
but if he doesn’t, let him die.
Yes, when he doesn’t, let him die.

When he’s laid out on the slab,
finally time to call a cab,
I’ll briefly lose my gift of gab—
my love was not a lie.

I’d love to stay, but I can’t;
Use my coat to prop his head, but let him die.
You can do what you want,
but I’m going to let him die.

16 January 1994
Age 23

[Note: This one goes out to the one with high ideals. You, perhaps?]

New York Makes Him Cry

Cut through the days
one after another,
possessed and deliberate,
thoughtless and cruel:

The boy, he wants to go;
the man, scared to know.

Rip into the night,
night after a long day—
depressed and deliberate:
lights and action.

The city, he loves it at random,
but in love, he must stay here now or never know;
he’s scared to know.

Up all night,
the city never sleeps,
but he sleeps in his city,
possessed and dreaming
of leaving
not just anyone.
The nightmare makes him cry,
thoughtless and cruel,
whisper calling out.

Loving the constants,
one keeps him from the other;
he would wait for none other.

The boy wants to go;
the whisper comes so slow;
the man is scared to know.

7 November 1989
Age 20