They ponder still, of the will, of the open book;
Better to be judged by cover, or by page, I await answer.

Foreign ink drops stain my words.
Eager notes scrawl my organs.
Passioned fingers, sweat my bonds; loose,
Like wings in the wind, my knowledge flies,
Unbridled.

They question more, the empty score, of the read bible;
Simpler to be believed, than misunderstood, agree?

Mumbling misfits, chant my contents in crazed ecstasy;
I made no commands, I wish for no harm;
I seek no justice, I want not blood, for fluid.
I wish for eyes and eyes alone.
Give it to me, these pleasures; alone.

They pass me down, the procession quick, and change me, day and night;
I am no babe, I need no milk for life, I have not mouth to feed, I need minds to seed.

The whispers they make in my presence,
behind closed doors is atrocious.
Do they ponder of me still,
to question my answers?
I care not, no more, for now, I am fractured.

For if you read, the broken pieces, the shards of my once reflective ode to wisdom;
You will gain naught but, an unbearable ache of the mind.

I know what she wants, I know what she needs.
Without my banana, she no longer heeds.
She spits out all of my winter seeds,
Down the river and caught in the reeds.

Primitive urges and sophisticated boredom.
Too much mail, not enough cats to sort ‘em.
She wants parlor tricks, not whiskey *****.
She wants sweet nothings, no liquorice sticks.

She’s a snake charmer in plural disguise.
Her double standards will be your demise.
She wants handsome, tall, not short and wise.
She wants musclebound, no porridge thighs.

She’s not sure about that or puzzled about this.
She has her way and you’ll do anything for a kiss.
She wants you dead before she becomes a pumpkin.
Smart as you are, you don’t know what she’s thinkin’.

**** a spider for her, spy for her, same difference.
To see her happy you’ll spare no expense.
To see her mad, all you need is common sense,
And to return to the frog you were forth hence!

She wants a man, a boy I’ll forever be.
All the world’s dreams are lost to the sea.
She doesn’t know that men don’t exist anymore.
Neither do women, growing up is a forgotten chore.

Betrayal, is like the mole in the pasture.
You thought you knew all about it,
when it popped its head up,
but god knows what it does underground...

Sooner or later, you find out, the mole was blind all along.
Didn't even really know you were there.

So how do you trust a friend who has no eyes to see.
How do you trust the uncertain problem solver, the maverick.
How do you trust the truth of Lady Justice, herself,
Sheathed in ragged, blood-stained cloth of the innocent.

Maybe the real question is, how do we trust ourselves?
Aren't we blind, when we live half our lives in darkness.
Still further, we live most of life in sleep,
Where our dreams are luxurious secrets, even to ourselves.

No one speaks of their lofty dreams, they stay perched in limbo.
To speak endlessly, until not spoken to, if only life were so simple...

Why can't I fly? Because, I am caged in the bowels of bitter, deceit.
Why can't I dance? Because, my body is bound to the gravity of unacceptable, honor.
Why, can't I sing? Because, my lungs are choked by this haute reservoir of insanity.

But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the ladder of awe, itself, and walks the silver lining of death.

Why can't I write? Because, my hands are bound in the filth of my past,
meddling with broken things.
Why can't I speak? Because, the honor I am bound to, is to live, life, behind closed windows.
Why can't I see? Because, the blindfolds that sheath my eyes from sin, are more sin than any satan incarnate.

But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the rungs of the narrow road, and walks over the pit of doom, to save itself.
There is no explanation for this act.

So, why can't I shout? Because, I am voiceless to the concerns of the audience.
Why can't I beg? Because, the world has no room for weakness, fear and more loss.
Why can't I scream? Because...
Because...

Because the Trapeze artist dropped off the high-strung ledge of wonders...
And plummeted into a darkness, that has robbed my audience, of all conscionable thought.

Because... the Trapeze artist, is dead.

I bought the shirt
to tell you I was there
when the electric slide was
cool,
when I wore dandelion
hair.

I knew the words that could
school
your mind so that you'd
stare.
With your electric hide
you can go
anywhere,
but imagine your jealousy
when I'm in all the photographs,
not noticing I don't fit.

In the millennium's decade
I wove webs at bars
I healed dames their scars
and gave them my brand.
I told jokes with slight
of
hand;
left coats with nowhere
to stand.
Oh, I was the border patrol,
******* pockets,
though none could pass.
My security measures were
long and vast,
probing questions
slick with crass,
I'd lead them to pasture
epiphanies from my grass.
Yes, I wore the hat,
compliments, too,
but my hat wouldn't fit
no matter what
I told it to
do.

All that time,
searching for something to fit.
Keys slipped out of locks
Numbers ripped off of clocks
women deprived of their... talks,
for my language was divine.
That was the problem:
how could I be divine?
Was I the branded fool?
Was I truly sublime?
A prince I was, set to inherit the world
till misfortune struck, disaster unfurled.

I couldn't fit into my home
or wherever I'd
roam.
I couldn't fit into school
now a blunted
tool.
I couldn't fit into work
Who's that?
****!

No, no, don't feel sorry for me...
After all, I'm only 3.
Three things you wouldn't
want to be.
Too round, too soft, too... me.
I'm not the sort of peg
that fits in at any degree.

I'm just the laughing stock,
that you put in your wok,
who tastes bad next year,
that much isn't clear.

Yet if I live in the past,
I'll eat my own tail,
so in order not to fail:
into the future, fast!

Someday I'll find,
that fitting is not the key,
it's learning to
relax,
in something bigger than I'll
ever be.