Stand to ever hope again is what she said to me
And this was foreign simply because hope was such a distant memory
All feelings in this world that had greeted and left my heart
Had forced me to rip hope out of me and from it forever part

Stand to ever hope again is what she said to me
But I was not sure what to do, a man on bended knee
Beaten and bruised by the vandal known simply as myself
People paying me no kindness as I found I pitifully knelt

Stand to ever hope again is what she said to me
As my knees shook and waivered and my body and mouth screamed
For these things called legs had let me down time and time again
Always buckling and leading to the place where I'd begin

Stand to ever hope again is what she said to me
When my legs failed to do the task I wished them so earnestly
But oh, I find that she did lie when announcing hope's demands
For hope is present when we try, whether we fall or stand

Saturn's Rings are made of Left-Handed Sugar. Makes your Oatmeal taste like Grapefruit and Diesel had a Baby in your Oatmeal. Your tongue will hate you forever and ever; and you can forget about complete sentences for the rest of your natural Life. Don't put that **** in your oatmeal is what i'm gettin' at here. Space Sugar is very unpleasant.

deep in the clean loamy. in the dark froth of top soil and odd moss - deep
in the tendrils of microscopic cosmologies; fecund and rampant with life -
the long reed holding the wind's note in it's throat
in the failing light, beneath the canopies...
you're gasping. you gasp
at the habit of
love's heart  
and the little things, teeming
in the underneath.
where gnashing teeth are dead leaves.
and yellow is origami
in the dappling
of the sun.

and the peace.

along the red marble hall in the east wing
on either side, hung from the talons of granite stones
resting on their brother's shoulders in the bitter load baring
framed in golden oak and cherry wood, gilded arcane; several paintings
in the style of the Old Masters. And a long rug from foreign fjords
like a flat dune of spice, the length of a mile. pinched to a vantage point
in a spider's web. and a draft.
a draft through the twelve senses. your song un-gongs the gamelan
and the bells remain. pecked by crows of a different summer.
beads of honey making war
on paraplegic bees. we keep these in styrofoam cups to just enough; seal our wounds.
we encounter the lost rooms with the odd keys
on either side, the full length of the east hall. stout, brawny portals to discord and fable.
perhaps even windows of a different winter.
perhaps we know.

a car full of bodies
lungs full of smoke
hearts full of love
a night to remember
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