I don’t want to sell my stories anymore, stop pushing me Some stories aren’t meant to be sold Some words aren’t meant to be told I want to leave them underneath the nightstand to be forgotten or remembered should my thoughts come upon them in the middle of the night after a long beach day Or by you, some afternoon, to thumb through with your worn warm after-work hands I love you, but you don’t understand me, I’m a real poet My life is my poetry, my love making is my legacy My thoughts are about nothing, and beautiful, and for free You see, the things that can’t be bought can’t be evaluated, and that makes them beyond human reach Untouchable, safe, otherworldy Unable to be deciphered or metabolized Something metaphysical, like a view of the sea on a summer day on the most perfect winding road taken in from the car window A thing perfect, and ready to become a part of the texture of the fabric of something more ethereal

Last year, when I wrote you my last letter The beginning of my future poetry I acknowledged who you really were for the first time I didn’t call you by any other name I let you know that I knew the true nature of your heart That it was evil, and that it convinced me that darkness was real That the devil is a real devil And that monsters don’t always know that they’re monsters But projection is an amazing thing After you left and burnt the house down You tried to convince me that it was I who was holding the matches You told me that I didn’t know who I was, but I do I love rose gardens I plant violets every time someone leaves me I love the great sequoias of yosemite And if you asked my sister to describe The first thing she thinks of when she thinks of me She would say camp fire smoke I’m gentle I’m funny when I’m drvnk But I haven’t been drvnk for 14 years I go on trips with my friends to the beach who don’t know that I’m crazy I can do that I can do anything Even leave you