Knowledge is not sufficient for commitment
          wisdom and indecision questing to win
          this mind find it indifferent when all I
          can think of now is just how much wanting you
          occupies my thoughts, a love song not my style
          not what interests me when writing, no such
          thing as constant passion, but when I’m silent
          my mouth drowns in seven unspoken requests.

One night, two broken pieces will fit again
          fight against those inhibitions and bullshit
          talking heads spout, Rand-some fountains spit, and truth
          will prove enough of an excuse to exist
          and live again, those splinters mirrors resent
          those slivers of memory fortunate each
          to have been seen and beaten and shattered by
          powers beyond the reach of our vanity.

All of this puts me in quite a position
          searching and measuring the distance exile
          wedges between us in those moments language
          abandons my lips, when the past makes demands
          of the present, asking me why I haven’t
          yet vanquished the hydra in my bed, severed
          its relentless necks with kisses reserved for
          mythic trysts, hushed conquests of no consequence.

Love is a temple trembling when I walk in
          a loaded gun partly irresponsible
          wholly ghost, a triangle I tempt when I
          spend my nights buying sin, going all in on
          secrets no one keeps, seeking warmth where shadows
          steal from embraces their thrill, flesh growing cold
          when dawn’s fingers rip from second lives their cloaks
          when second sight prophesies what my heart doubts.

Anger, as if heaven-sent, fire on the tongue
          asking with clenched fists, if you’re the one then why
          can’t I open up, this monument of mine
          this interior life a broken spirit
          hides behind a chain-link fence, on towering
          bookshelves crowded with pirated editions
          of my other Selves, each volume a basket-
          case filled with emptiness, madness your calm cures.