Standing with friends on a nameless shore,
I feel somehow so grateful to be so unsure
what wonders and horrors destiny has in store.

I go in, and sit where the waves are breaking.
Repeating, rolling over my head, overtaking
all of the spirits- now shivering and awaking.

They did not sleep, yet also they did not stir-
for the land they loved was occupied by her.
Now she's gone, but they're not as they were.

The light is low; the day is coming to fiery end-
but there are certain things Apollo can't defend
and why should I not call the night my friend?

In blackest day, or brightest night,
of longest vision but shortest sight;
in a single step on an endless road
of mindless thought or breathless ode,
I stumbled over the shadow cast
by ancient present and modern past.
Here I discovered a light that shone
on wonders wandering, all alone,
and onto that faceless, nameless ghost
who whispered this to a wooden post:
“If all who judge were to be blamed,
as all who boast were to be shamed,
and all who hate were to be healed,
so all who hide could be revealed,
and stones forgot how sand had sinned,
then spirits which they call the wind
would carry them off as a faithful friend-
and only then would this road end.”

There is neither
word nor rhyme
with passion
left to prove
my love for you,

thus then either
bird, or lime,
or fasten,
shmeck, or groove
will have to do.

A man stood up to pass me by,
and heading briskly for the door,
let loose an almost inaudible sigh-
what could he have been sighing for?

Could it have been for all the friends
who never call him anymore?
Or was it in woe of all of the ends
of happy times gone long before?

Or are his motives less self centered,
and he sighs for the human race?
Was he so solemn when he entered,
and did he walk at such a pace?

I wonder just how many sighs
contribute to our atmosphere-
if bottled up, how much it buys,
and does one ever disappear?

Could I have answered to this sigh
and brought a castaway to shore?
Could it have been a silent cry,
or just a sigh and nothing more?

I think
therefore
I am
afraid
the hand
will take
what it
has made
and I
will fade
into
the snow
before
I find
a place
to grow.

The ugly boy
saw the beautiful girl,
fell under her spell
and was lost in her swirl.
In whirling wind,
he fell into the sky-
but she was a storm,
and in passing, would die.
So then he would fall
and get caught in the trees,
to go back on loving
like the rats and the fleas.

I see it in the bathroom mirror,
and on the horizon, coming nearer.
It’s dripping from a dollar bill-
I sell it off but touch some still.
I hear it dripping from my car,
I hear it comes from wells afar,
I see it seeping from a stone
(that monolith we call a phone),
and spilling from our eyes at night
while sirens dance in rays of light.
Now as I shower for an hour,
I feel it filling up a tower
all the way up to the moon.
This tower will come crashing soon.
It is the milk of death and strife,
yet some would say it's the stuff of life.
Some say that it will set you free-
in blood they tried to baptize me.