Hobo's Poems

I told my friend the grief is like a flame that is always lit within me. It burns every day inside Jennifer Dawn. It's intensity rises with the anniversary - one side of the flame, a personal pool of hot lava frustration drop in to revolt. Yet it burns peacefully most of all because within me is always the flame of love, an endless supply of listen, connect and receive. I swim in the bottomless pool of peaceful water. Is it two flames? One flame changes? Is it two rooms, two pools in my heart? I told my friend the grief is like the Olympic flame, and I discover there are two flames inside the torch. The yellow one burns cooler and is prone to extinguish in the wind and rain, but there is a smaller, hotter flame which is capable of relighting the other one. I cherish this flame(s) and all it is from when I climb out of bed in the morning to when I place my head on my pillow at night. I honor the pain. It is a symbol to me of celebrating life ...

to be inside the swirl of blue the ocean wave of us the tunnel of wish the spark of possibility the drive deep within please keep her here  nonononononononono this burn in my stomach moving up through my throat the pressure hands squeeze my neck no breathe and claim her change my life

My daily routine - I reach out to grab your hand the one I can't see in the crowd or on the train. I seize your elbow anywhere. I think about you and you arrive on the R at Lexington and 59th, climbing up the stairs with me to 95 degrees on W. 79th and Broadway. It can't be five years. Another day this month, no ventilation on the subway. Switch cars, wait to feel the cool air come on. The Spanish minister, the announcement about delays, sounds amplify disturb peace while I blare Le Tigre. It can't be five years.

Don't be sad for me for the body that is not here. I still have my mother. Okay, be sad for me for the gone away of her body. Thank you, my mother for teaching me love lives in missing senses there is nothing missing.