If you are uncomfortable when you look in the mirror,
keep in mind:
We spent thousands of years
trying to convince the earth
she was flat.

We wrote her maps as evidence of the things we saw;
and she believed them.
She cried tsunamis, and had earthquake breakdowns.

Keep in mind: the Sun never gave up hope.
The earth will keep spinning and breathing
the star-dusty space void of encouragement.

Next time you look in the mirror
and second-guess your potential divinity,
remember you will keep shining and living.

Because the Sun is out there
believing in you,
compensating for lack of the human capacity
to treat each other empathically.

You don’t need proof or approval
to be exactly what you are;
Eventually everyone will see
your infinite beauty.

I fell asleep against
the stained glass that painted
the ground with colors that
children only see through
the lenses of kaleidoscopes;
vividness that blind men
only see when holding the
warm hands of their lovers.

I woke up to the bells
singing tunes of the eschaton
and the priest muttering
damnation upon the half-empty
bottle of Jim Beam resting in my lap.

"Want a swig?" I asked with a stagger.
"No," he replied.  "Whiskey is the devil's elixir

and besides,
there are plenty a bottle of Christ's blood behind the altar from which to choose."

stare at nothing in particular,
but they imagine hands that once
embraced their own.

And that nothing in particular
materializes into
everything those eyes want to see -

another moment to hold those hands
and look into eyes that do not grieve at all.

The fisherman tells the sea
that he promises to weather its storms.
The sea tells the fisherman
that she promises to carry him
to adventurous lands
upon her leeward waves.

As for me,
I promise we will be okay
as the winds blow the shingles
off our tiny, little house.
I promise we will be okay
as we follow the maps
and navigate the roads
while the radio sings static,
our hands clasped together
at your knee.

I promise that the rain
will radiate diamonds,
that reflect the gleam of your eyes,
onto the shores,
into the sea,
onto me,
and especially onto you.

We will find hope inside the clouds.

He says to her, "goodnight." ("I never meant to hurt you.")
She walks away from him. ("You never hurt me; you shattered me.")
He begs her, "I hope you sleep well." ("I am sorry. Please let me put you back together.")
She continues to walk. ("I am a sinking ship. I am an earthquake. I am a falcon without a falconer.

I am beyond repair.")

The clouds reach their hands down
and cover the mountain peaks.
They call the Moon to reflect the Sun's light;
the fog glows a golden orange across the slopes.

In a dreamstate,
we are driving through Castle Rock,
the star brightly shining atop the granite anomaly.
He lights his pipe,
his hands swipe the match against the book like a maestro conducting a symphony,
and exhales the aroma of Philosopher's Blend into the thin Colorado air.

Many miles now separate
us, from the Rockies of Colorado
to the badlands of new Mexico;
but his smoke rings still
linger in the air, among the clouds,
that shroud the mountaintops.

Sleepless dreaming -
Where slumber does not lead to
vision does not lead to
nightmare or wonder.

Unreal City -
Where each headstone,
covered in moss
and shrouded by fern,
sharply reads:
"THE HORROR!  THE HORROR!"
And those whose souls
still cling to their withering bodies
speak so placidly about The Buried:
"Oh, Mistah _____?  He dead."

Sleepless dreaming.
Where cities crumble into the ocean
and giants buckle at the knees, yelling:

"Shantih!  Shantih!  Shantih!
"Oh Lord, where is The Peace
that passes all understanding?"