I stare/
at a blank screen;/
it’s as if/
I lost my muse./
I sigh, dare/
2 finally grasp truth/
of Otis’ cry:/
You don’t miss your water/
’til your well runs dry.

Can U text here?/
Although I fear/
as I write U/
I’ll be more prone to woo/
than I’d do/
normally/
through/
hyperbole,/
Haiku,/
slant rhymes/
and, 4 U,/
sometimes,/
blues.

It’s raining, again./
Explain your flirt style, and when/
you do, use small words.

I hope you still know,/
both in sunshine or moon’s glow,/
your prettiness shows.

On I-5 from Canby/
I had 2 let her go./
It wasn’t up 2 me;/
she left long b4./
Ignoring who she was,/
what she could b,/
I missed my shot,/
got left/
on I-5 from Canby.

The pain/
of not hearing from u/
is exceeded only by fear/
there’s someone new/
and the knowledge that u/
decided we are through./
All combined,/
that makes me blue.

Jackson Browne/
came into town!/
In my canoe/
you can hear him, too!/
Although it’s late,/
don’t hesitate!/
Starts at . . . 7.

Our lesson is on charity./
2 visit the sick, poor, lonely./
It’s something I try 2 do./
2 ask ‘How r u?’/
But for 3 years I’ve been lonely./
Y does no one love me?

Why is there/
erotic art anger?/
Every participant/
I’ve yet met/
has some gripe, rant/
or grievance to vent./
Erotic joy lives in their works./
So y are they jerks?

I thought we’d always care./
I thought we’d always share/
stuff/
and being stuffed./
That wasn’t enough./
You’ve turned a bend/
toward an end/
I didn’t see,/
without me