Peter Knowles

Hello I've reached Peter Knowles.

He's not who I meant to call
I must have hit a wrong digit on the phone.

In any case he knows all about you now.

He knows your name and what you look like.
I told him some of your stories.
He knows how you kiss.
He knows you're in my heart.

Who would have thought that professing it all
to a stranger's answering machine would bring
such a sense of calm.

I am forever in your debt my dear Peter.

I'm Not Going To Write Anymore

I decided last tuesday while I was
brushing my teeth and plucking
stray hairs from my face

I'm not going to write anymore.

For no particular reason except
that I felt the need to decide to
decide something.

...

But by thursday my head was filled
to the brim with words that needed
to be put on paper.

I'm not going to write anymore.

I thought maybe speaking aloud
would stop the madness that was
taking over my brain.

"a flower"

"blood"

"red on white"

" a bird"

But soon I realized that I could no sooner
will my heart to stop beating than
stop the poetry that flows in my veins

and so I

retrieved my pen from a drawer and
carefully placing it on a white sheet
I wrote in long swooping sweeps:

I'm not going to write anymore.

Masochist

I can handle your lashings like

no one you've ever seen.

Your needles and knives they've

found their home on all the softest parts

of my skin.

And I am comfortable with that.

I am a masochist

and I know you approve.