A single scrap of paper

and the child within me springs to life-

the child with bed head and a LEGO fascination-

leads me up and down stairs on all fours;

lights my face, shines my smile

soaks my senses- oversensitive;

takes a horizon, gives me an infinite shadow box;

takes a coincidence, gives me providence;

reminds me that some trees are ladders,

the others are giants, like buildings but wiser;

makes me giggle, as the circles untangle;

makes me ask myself,

Are they following us?

Who made this video game?  What's a boat made of waffles?

makes me too excited to eat; gives me dessert first;

lets me eat infinite Twizzlers;

lets me laugh at all of the sleepy adults,

and stay up late talking about collective consciousness;

lets me decide, "next time I'm going to the nature park",

as long as I can talk to all of the statues and sculptures on the way;

lets me write till there's no more room.

I know I was sleeping, still as can be
but was there a nightmare?
My eyes rolled back, sunk down, dug deep, and I floated
up, up, past the clouds, up towards transcendence.
I found myself in the company of the Big Man's Symphony,
a multitude of beautiful shining faces, gorgeous imaginative instruments
nothing earthly about them.
And the music- oh the music.
I don't want to call it sound, cause that's too ugly,
that doesn't describe what was surrounding us.
It was perfection.  It was awe. I was nervous.
For as all played and buzzed and hummed and awed,
I did not.  I couldn't.  My instrument was different.
Mine was odd, mine didn't fit
It looked hand-made, it smelled like dirt
and whenever I wished to join in on the beauty,
my instrument coughed, and cracked.
The strings disappeared and the holes filled up.
What happened next bothers me most:
I fell.  down. I fell far.
Far from beauty and majesty,
far from transcendence,
I fell to the ground.  I bit dust.  I drew blood.
and my instrument melted under my tears
like mud.

Nobody's homebody, he melts on the road
like a Popsicle dropped
sick with sores in his throat.


Finds some lost leather proverbs
asleep in the mud
where my empty head had left 'em
'couple pulses short of blood,
nearly choked on the truth
with wooden ears and swollen tongue.


Not a pinch of relief
for dusty rubber teeth;
make a mind hate it's grainy brain
half-baked with sleep,
while the other half lay caked with wasted belief.