A thumping in the background, but it’s
coming from inside my chest; self-awareness
may be, for me, how I pay my chits,
making room for Him, and those I impress,

within the boundaries of my body;
but a fear of the unknown comes with it;
I put away my clock—to be what He
is to me: I absorb his breath, in respite,

I turn to a voice that, I imagine, in part, comes from the future, which means that, on this day, I will only listen to my true love’s voice for a couple hours. But I have been neglecting the other voices that live in my mind, that represent different facets of me—and I need that, don’t I, when my true love and I should reconvene?

I do my best to let Him occupy
my body, at night, when I’d be at peace,
with or without a partner—I deny,
by breathing deeply and without cease,

unwelcome thoughts, and, with His help, I
stick to the time at hand, without rushing
in the morrow, anxious to work, and try
and get ahead, skipping the evening,

I am a hop, skip, and a jump away
from the truth that I live, by necessity,
considering what I am, day by day.
I’m free, but subject to an injury

that presents itself as His blessing,
getting off, sooner, from the computer,
forced to face, and integrate, my King.
My libido assumes the life I’d prefer,

But I never tried to keep a little bisexuality a secret, did I? My girlfriend was that way—and, because of that, I had every reason to embrace it, and I did. So all of the above is not the entire story—the fact of the matter is not that I have something to hide—or that I want to hide it; on the contrary, I’m lonely, and I want an emotional connection in my life—only that would take the edge off, and that, physically, is not forthcoming, so I must turn to atheism or God, and, if I had to choose, all things being equal, I’d choose God, because, really, who wants to believe that life, ultimately, is imperfect?

A longer work day, ahead, with less sleep,
longer work days ahead, watching, too,
more TV. What, in the end, will I keep
to myself, have to myself, forced to make do?

Pinched nerve in my neck, living in pain,
nothing to be done about it—here’s
the drumming of my clock, breathe, I abstain,
mindful breath but a rapping in arrears,

Darned old sobriety, nipping at my heels,
making me anxious, restless, looking
for something that is not there. He seals
my testimony between the lines, a fling,

I guess, but I want more. 360
milligrams of caffeine—will I sleep?
Better get used to it, sober and dead
to the world, don’t want to hear a peep

Slippery time, spreading its wings, leaving me to my endeavors, without an audience. But I tell myself, the work is good, and that will come, eventually. If it doesn’t, in this life, then it will, in the next—and if there is no consciousness after this, then I won’t know it, etc.

O heavy, hollow, heart, so unsure of
itself, so afraid, as if it’s done wrong.
I confide, coming out of my shell, with love
in my heart that pains me so, song of song,

and I’m more vulnerable yet, but I
cannot stop, the walls are closing in—
the person I rejected, to get sober, nigh
to me, resurfaces, and I can’t win.

But, if you look hard enough, everyone,
in this life, has some imperfection,
some impediment, that, under the gun,
would ruin our chances at creation,

and the love that goes with it, hand in hand.
So, to live in this world, and dream, too,
of what shall come in the next, I must stand
for the soul, the beauty within, that, in lieu