I don’t write with meaning in mind.
I don’t read with meaning ever escaping and outlasting prisons of time.
I like it when you slap me with your enduring recklessness.
I braved the storm as the snow beat through us like a frozen heartbeat.
You’re not a soldier no matter how many uniforms you wear.
You’re not a lover no matter how many kisses you place on the Buddha’s forehead.
I don’t believe in beliefs and that is why I’ll never be a zealot or a zebra trainer.
I don’t portend to change the world with obvious puns or crossword puzzles dipped in honey and oxblood.
I still can recall the first time we met.
You were fancy and I was a stumblebum and nothing has changed and it never will.
I don’t write with mind in meaning.
I don’t covet the messages in a bottle because I know alcoholism will only leave you helplessly blind and desiring even more moral ambiguity.
She was disingenuous to a fault, but I forgave her trespasses because the way she moaned was like a cavalcade of whispering fanatics.
And when we made love I felt completely free for the first time in my Purina Puppy Chow life.