new years poem for e

It’s hard to make love poems
when you’re in the body of it.

There’s no strong arms of desire
or insecurity to hold up my canon

at love point. I’m here, writing shotgun,
shooting off at the bazooka tooth too much

I suppose. For that, I’m sorry. So this
is my yearly poem to you boo--

There is no padded room
for the sentimental, no keys

to open your wavy locks.
You put the love in unlikely and we’ve

been surfing this hurricane from pacific
to NewYork.

Who would of thought we’d be
inundating for the past three years,

definitely not my exes. I didn’t think
the jock in me could handle your plays;

the silence at which you react
to my blitzes always flusters me.

And I know this is just the macho in my masochism,
the shhhhhhhhhhh in it.

I know this vehicle is problematic to you
but maybe that’s why I’m so stuck.