The circle meets under each new moon,
and sees a gleaming lunar noon.
Facing together, they’re singing about
the night they blew the moonlight out.

And in the moonlight did they weep
for silver simmering in its keep;
they dreamt demonic days asleep,
and saved their breath only to shout

until they blew the moonlight out.
And then in the darkness did they creep
like Spider in the water spout,
or like a flock of wounded sheep;

Sirius said the wolves will sleep,
then painted the dirt a deep maroon.
Sower shall sow, and reaper shall reap;
they dined in darkness, free of doubt.

And if the hour is dawning soon
the circle sees the silver spoon,
they’ll forge an empire in the deep,
and then they’ll blow the moonlight out.

Young is yes, but no
is longer-
let’s be slow
together, stronger.
Feather floating
way, way back
to live forever
in the black
that was and will,
and is but not-
you be still,
and still taste hot
despite the cold;
forget the lot
that you were sold.
If you ask me,
it's growing old.

You may say that I’m a dreamer,
but my dreams are all I have-
if they die, then so do I.
So I have to try.

Friends say I’ll climb this mountain
and discover that it has no peak-
still, I have to know how high.
To know, I have to try.

Many are saying through twisted eye
that I’m a fool and dreams will lie-
they’ve seen even less than I.
For them too, I have to try.

I’m a fool, and always have been,
but that’s just no way to die-
and even Icarus got to fly.
I too, have to try.

Welcome to the zoo-
and who are you?
And is it true that you are free?
All the animals you see
are often coming up to me
and asking: “Which way to the door?”,
but I don’t answer anymore,
for I have lost my way as well.
I wonder then if you can tell-
is this the zoo, or is this Hell?

In communist wasteland
billboard show dictator-
says, "Work hard
or we make you miserable."
In America,
billboard show pearls-
says "Work hard
or you make you miserable."
In Borga Borga,
no billboard.
Island five miles wide.

In communist wasteland,
election is fixed.
In American election,
opinion is fixed.
In Borga Borga,
everyone broke.

TV in communist wasteland
blame America
for poor in Borga Borga.
TV in America
blame Borga Borga.
Borga Borga blame TV.

Nobody want to live in
beautiful Borga Borga
but me.

I ran though those rotating doors
where men were doing silly chores-
polishing statues and waxing floors
outside of those redundant stores
that line the air conditioned alleys,
ten foot poster **** sallys,
and symmetry in pale valleys
beneath the ceiling of Elysium;
more marble in here than an art museum.
A sad omen for whats in store-
just which god is this temple for?

I bought that Norman Rockwell mood
I surely absolutely needed,
then headed for the court of food
(for shopping does leave one defeated)
where I was so kindly greeted
by a man who’s head was beaded
where his eyes were meant to be.
Some would stare, but no, not me!
I ordered white chocolate ***** tea
double espresso and sugar free,
but sugar overflowed ‘til it coated the floor
and I’m already craving more.

I then stood up to take my leave,
and lock myself at home to grieve
for what prosperity had done;
our towers now eclipsed the sun.
My gentle stroll became a run,
for underneath fluorescent haze
the walls and marts became a maze-
some escalator MC Escher craze
which drowned me after several days.
The secret which I had not known
was simply that the mall had grown
and stretched itself right out the door.
Which god is this temple for?

To talk
like best friends on a midnight walk,
to sing
like it's the first morning of spring,
to laugh
like you just found the first giraffe,
to cry
like the falcon whose wings don't fly,
to love
like you're falling from far above,
to hate
like they've stolen your empty plate,
to learn
like tomorrow our books will burn,
to read
till you fear your heart will bleed,
to teach
to the children the power of speech,
and to do
unto others as they'd do unto you.

Cupping drops of chocolate in island palms,
I ate one like life, sweet and bitter;
like silk and butter; like the sweet dark
oblivion of sleep but better.
And in my trance I took another,
and another, until I had just one,
and mindful now of what my indulgence
would soon become,
to be no more, I savored the last drop
and rolled it about on my tongue like
a word for one I love,
and after wondered to myself-
in which drop lay the deeper satisfaction
now that all were passed?
The very first one, or the very last?

The great golden wheel serves only to steal-
the deal is lost as we buy and borrow.
It severed the hand while we sanded our sorrow;
abandoned the bleeding demands of tomorrow.

So now seas are rising where we reside,
but we must not think to run and hide.
Why don’t we decide instead to step outside,
and into sunbeams, glowing red?

To feel the flora fluoresce like an aurora,
or to hear the battle rattle like a cattle train;
to taste acid rain as it trickles off treetops,
and tickles the trembling brain.

Why don’t we decide once more
to die for today, and prop open the door,
for only to witness that light which will stay
far after our feet have forgotten the floor?

Why don’t we decide to play
together while the skies are grey;
together we will find a way away from here
where we have wrecked- what a lovely side effect.

I am but another of those
cigarettes in San Francisco’s
singing, silent early streets-
falling from the fire escape
and wrapped in hotel sheets.
When all of life was nothing
but some spinning fiery rings,
and in a time when we had time
to waste on precious things.

Setting deadly streets aglow
in frozen, dancing Chicago-
I am the call of the moon,
the song of night, the howl
of the restless night owl
perched forever out of
place and out of pace,
yet promising forever still
to save our human race.

New York City, lit in name,
but dark and brooding all the same-
let me shine upon your dock
for every weary pilgrim
upon every distant rock,
and for every paper plane
toppling your house of cards-
let us look past our broken hearts,
for we’ve ignored another’s pain.

I too am the merciless, wild lands;
a sea of fire in cupped hands-
and like a vulture for its prey,
I stand along the highway long
as golden starmen play my song.
Unchained, untrained, and undefined;
take the ticket, light the mind.
Breathe me in, be free to see,
for it’s not freedom if it’s blind.

I do
because
I’m afraid
to.

I swim
because
I’m afraid
to dry.

I drown
because
I’m afraid
to fly.

I dive
because
I’m afraid
to die.

I live,
because
I’m afraid,
alive.

Sick in bed, and barely moving,
With a fever unimproving,
I witnessed a vision so behooving
That it haunts me evermore.

A ghostly being there intruding,
Held a hand out, thus alluding
That I was to come, excluding
All the bones and skin I wore.

From the eye my vision leapt,
And witnessed as the body slept,
Then looking to the creature, wept,
But followed swiftly out the door.

Over the city, softly glowing,
Rising until the sun was showing,
The being pointed down, bestowing
What empire I’d wasted for.

Above the clouds we then ascended,
Passing even the stars suspended
(fields where those fires offended
Darkness in their endless war).

Above the stars we reached a place
Of laughter and pastoral grace,
Beyond the grips of that mad race
For greater burdens to abhor.

Here people lived in a wooded grove,
Sleeping in grassy nests they wove;
There was no need for roof or stove,
For here no rain would ever pour.

Here we happened on a feast,
Where as they ate, the food increased,
So hunger too was never ceased,
And satisfied them all the more.

Wine was tapped from a willow trunk
Which let them live forever drunk,
Dancing until the moon had sunk
To hide behind the sycamore.

And oh, what music when they danced!
They’d shake, or fly, or sit entranced
By melodies which drums enhanced,
And sing along to every score.

Here I stopped to take a rest,
Discerning that this place was blessed,
Thinking to mingle as a guest,
And learn a little of its lore.

I took a fruit and tried a bite,
Finding it much to my delight—
But sickened when I caught the sight
Of rot and writhing at its core.

I threw it to the ground in grief,
And there it fell before their chief
Who smiled, much to my relief,
And sat me on the forest floor.

“Listen, child”, the chief then said,
“Your body slumbers in a bed,
But all the creatures here are dead,
And these are the fruits that we adore.”

That creature who had been my guide
Returned now, standing by my side,
And led me to a longboat tied
Up loosely to a mossy shore.

We set ourselves upon the waves,
And tracing along the cliff's enclaves,
We reached a set of narrow caves,
Whereupon that creature manned the oar.

The air inside was black as ash,
So I hadn’t seen that fateful splash
As it directed us to crash,
But blindly felt my body soar.

I fell from my bed in the bud of dawn,
And was in my room, with curtains drawn.
My fever now was finally gone,
Though still I was a little sore.

I sat by the window to catch my heart,
And felt that my whole life was just the start—
Like I'd only known the smallest part
Of what there really was in store.

Whatever that vision was all about,
Of its effect, I’ve not any doubt.
Taking my coat then, I went out—
For I was craving to explore.

What is still out there
that I am yet to cry for?
Lie for? **** or die for?
What treasure lies buried in the folds
of a shifting world, tossing me
like a baby in a blanket
in the sea of storms and creatures
of all creation?
Is love what calls the hero forth
into the battles of the giants
stomping on the soul
and beating the heart with hammers
in the desert where we lie waiting,
cold and wise and old
and in disguise as sheep?
Is love out there?
Or is it in the night, breaking
silent suffering scarecrows
with the brothers of time
and screaming from the open sunroof
of a car overtaking dead midnight traffic,
waking the pastures of a reckless
and restless youth?
Is love what we were chasing
when we were racing?
Or is it something far above,
and beyond what we have yet become
as children in the womb
of life and sorrow;
will love find me in tears
of a final breath for all that was
lost in seamless sleep and
dreaming?

Tonight the wolves are prowling;
I can feel them in my blood-
and in my ears they’re howling
in wild rage against the flood.
The moon is in my eye,
and in its glow I’m overflowing-
drowning in the starry sky,
and clawing madly for a thing
which moonlight isn’t showing.
In naked wind I feel the sting
of sleeping decades in rotation:
I mark my plot, make darkness sing,
but summer, fall, winter, and spring
eclipse my shallow indentation.

A ship tossed under a violent storm
is thought romantic, as blood is warm-
but waves are worse on the little lake,
and take an often darker form.

Here there is no triumphant splash,
or chance to choose to fight or dash-
there is no dawn on which to make
a promise that you will not crash.

Dawn will come, but it's only dawn,
and when it arrives, it's glory is gone.
There's no reward, for none's at stake;
no luck, for lots were never drawn.

So set your sails, and sail free,
and do not lament so readily
the life you're destined to forsake-
for you may get to see the sea,
and that's worth every wave you take.

Some devils looked upon the lights
of angels in the night’s blue air,
and said to one another there:
“Let’s rob the fair, deface
the profound, and place
these lights on the ground.”

So up they flew as the night grew cold,
the sky bought in, and light was sold
to the ground for the sound of cars
in a valley of concrete, and steel bars
carved by rivers of wide awake.

The ground began to bend and shake
as pillars rose to fill the air,
then further to ensnare the eyes
who then became the spies of smoke.

Now early morning has awoke
too early, all the ***** dust
is kicking up and down the street.

The clock struck one, a sun so new,
the day brings so much work to do—

for very soon, the clock strikes two.

These pages aren’t all light and glory-
this is a terrible love story,
but it’s still some great *******.
It’s a tragedy smeared on the geography,
and it’s a comedy of cosmic calamity.
It’s the chanting of the trees,
and it’s the ramblings of insanity.
It’s a tirade told with fluttering hands,
like the last autumn leaves on a dying land.
It’s a careless musing, but so amusing;
a prophets dream we’re, by waking, losing.
It’s a mystery of misery;
it’s a history of divine impartiality.
It’s the animated hand of animosity,
filled with the fire of philosophy,
then faced with the fallacy
of reality.

Deep beneath a subtle glance
upon the skin, or upon the plants,
there lies a secret universe-
this land of sorrow, of romance,
where wiggly creatures all rehearse
the never ending microbe dance.

Gathering into their little mobs,
they wage tiny wars, and work tiny jobs-
they test their tiny roars and sobs
in tune to a timeless, wordless song.
This dance will ransom what time it robs,
so says the cells: it won’t be long
‘til they jiggle into jelly globs.

But dancing is older than they know,
and the song of change is slow.
As its structure starts to grow,
movements within these micro-nations
pretty soon will start to show
longer and wider variations
as symptoms of some new mutations-
on and on this dance will go.

As many men build mighty towers,
the Buddha child shakes his head.
He grants no time to a tower so tall-
such a tall tower has too far to fall.

As men flee fast from falling hours,
the Buddha child will smile instead-
for like this tower, flat on the floor,
is any tower that falls no more.

We who stop and see the flowers
heed what the Buddha child said:
"From where do you take the fruit-
from the stem or from the root?

Short and sweet are earthly powers;
do not abandon your dreams unfed,
yet do not lose yourself in hunger-
for it cannot make you younger."