He’s one hell of a writer, but no good on paper.

Last night we spoke at the bar
Blends and single-malts of heartache.
3 rounds of gin and tonic.
Stories of poor decisions we’d made.

I said,
I dried up the ink on that one.
It was an exchange,
He got what he wanted from me
I dipped my pen into his chest cavity.
Took a fountain nib
Straight to hisjugular vein.
Bled the boy dry.
But, you know what they say,

“There are more ink wells in the sea.”
She said,
Let me know if you want
To go looking through shipwrecks.

I have been. It’s just-
This one’s no good on paper.
Or, he only is.
Or, this analogy is confusing.
Ill-thought-out
This analogy suits him.

This is a poem of excuses I am already making.

On paper he is
Just a headline
An inevitable obituary.
A newspaper in the age of the computer.
Too often scanned over
I am the fool still reading.

I missed my station reading him.

On paper he is
Shoved in pocket forgotten bar receipt.
Postcard for an event I can’t attend.
The pamphlets men hand me Friday afternoon.
On the corner of Graham avenue.
They ask if I know Christ,
Would I like to?
Am I willing to have faith
In what exists beyond logic?
Poetry,
Jesus, evidently.
And him.

Parts of him have been translated into Spanish.
I only speak half of his language.
Can’t name what fraction of him
I understand yet.

On paper, this is just a guess
At the note someone left by the telephone.
Someone called,
Something incredibly important.
Life or death situation.
Please call.
Scribble. Scribble.
This poem is illegible.

This poem just a list
Of men I should have kissed
I wrote him before he existed.
This poem will self destruct in 15 seconds.
This is a poem of I want you.
But.
They just don’t make mistakes
Like they used to.

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