I don't know
What to do
Even though
I know you are there
For me
After what happend
I feel more alone

I was born on a belt
In the factory of man,
Rolled into a home,
Labeled and stamped.

My life was made honest
By ink on a page,
And my future controlled
By a system of wage.

My whole life thus far,
Two decades of lame,
Incompetent bureaucratic,
Institutional reign

Has seen us shuffled down
The educational lane,
Made unified products;
For unified gain.

i want you to have com--

                   e

easily slowest faster
a tightly groomed lips

pleasantl--


                        y


of colossal tiny groaning
into deepening thighs
wanders deeper a
wand and dies (petitel--


                      y)





la mort

It's knocking.
Inviting me to come in.
Not demanding.  That won't happen till later.
Right now, we're all on best behavior.
It's calling me,
The satin, silk, and cashmere of well chosen words.
Painting a picture of possibility and promise.
Implausible pay, promotion and perks
Pursuing the path, pursuant to plan.
It's inviting me in,
And reminding me that this was my idea.
But to what, I am not as certain as I was.
Or perhaps I'm just a little afraid.
Are those tingles excitement or premonition?
Warning or inhibition?
It is calling me.
It 's calling me forward, or so it says.
I think it's forward; hard to tell direction some times,  
amidst a fog or bright lights.
But I hear voices behind me too.  
Calling me back, whispers of doubt, hints of inadequacy.
That's weird, but there's cheering too.
Oh, the blessings of being loved!
It sounds familiar.  Those voices have been quiet for some time.
Are they mine?
I think it's about time both choruses were heard again.
It's knocking.  I'm walking.
Headed for the door.

Listen up, sweater.

   take good care of my love now

         when her joy is boundless, hop around like a fool and
         revel in the excitement of each crisp little sound

                and in the cold nights lay warm beside her, whether as
                pillow or cuddlee and be the soft whisper for hands to hold
                the mooring point for beautiful dreams

                       (you are hers while I'm away because
                             I am hers no matter where I go)

            and in that rustle of fabric, that cloth to smooth skin
            do speak my name
                                 and retain all our scents when we laughed in her
                                 arms so she'll smile and close her eyes and
                                 burrow into you

listen up, sweater.
               take good care of my love now