This is for you….

She’s like my favorite poem over a K West beat.
Make me want to hit repeat, every time I hear her speak.
Messing up the entropy, whenever she is next to me.
I swear when our lips touch I ******* favorite poetry,
and your two cents is all you have to spend on me.
A greater understanding of foundation, you’re so smart for me.
Baby what you do to me?
You got me feelin' you,
cuz recently all I talk about is just you and me.

Your on my mind 24/7 kind of rhyme scheme,
Every song I write is a new reason you should love me!
See before I met you,  
all I talk about was politics the problem is
I never got the logic from the opposite you offered it.
Why do I sing I love you?
If a card can say the same thing.
What if I had words that always made you dance and sing
cuz listen how you make me feel,
I know is something bigger,
I’m vulnerable
and I’m waiting for your hugs later like…

l love like this
I never knew I could love like this  
It must be love if I feel like this
I never knew I could love like this  
l love like this
I never knew I could love like this  
It must be love if I feel like this

Suddenly its been more than a year,
wait, holdonaminute,
There it goes--
It glows with a golden aura,
I coulda' sworn I'd determined to hold on to it,
jotted it down, photographed, videoed,
reminisced late at night.
It's alright, my tight grasp failed,
But it hasn't slipped through my fingers,
just drifted, calm, leaving a soft tingling on my arms,
then left me with a jolt,
a revolt against the turmoil that plagues me.
The future used to be dread, dead-ended
in routine monotony.
Now it has gotten me day dreaming fondly,
beaming in my sleep,
stretching toward it with fervor.
No wonder this year passed so quick,
it was just one tick
in the span of forever.

It's a blessing and a curse,
    this connection that we share
A balance between the love we feel
        and how much we should care

Me and Ewan,
him eight, me five
up at the big woodies.

Big boys approach.
There were bad boys
at the big woodies, we knew,
but these seem friendly.

They talk to us.
I know to be polite
to people who talk to you.

"Is your dad gay?"
they ask.
I don't know
why they're interested
in my dad's disposition,
but I answer,
"Yes."

Ewan, more worldly,
nudges me,
agitated.
"What?"
I ask.
"He is.  Usually."

The big boys
are delighted
and wander off,
their work accomplished.

If I could time-jump,
I would reoccupy my head
with more knowledge
than I had at five.

I would say,
"If you mean 'happy',
then yes.
If you mean 'homosexual',
then no.
Not as far as I know."

I think that might perplex them.

Holiday jingles jangle faintly
behind the soup of conversation.
Occasional laughs, clacking dishes,
the sizzle of eggs hitting the heated grill.
It's as if a cosmic wind
swirls in, group after group,
toward the front counter, passed the coffee,
to settle them each at a table,
then a little later, up and on to their respective places,
school, work, the air port, to some other destination.
Meanwhile, the wind passes me by,
forgets to tug me toward destiny,
forgets I want to fly.
Instead, I pick myself up
and walk myself outside.

She sits on a wooden porch
in a chair that learned its comfortable shape
over decades of fireside conversation.
Her hair, still dark,
dark with a swatch of silvery gray
that drapes across the top of her head—
an honorary sash, life-bestowed.
Her cheeks, still round.
Her eyes, still green and wondering.
Her fingers, still short as they
light a long wooden pipe.
With a flick and a hiss, she *****
sweet tobacco smoke
and breathes out secrets
in languages spoken only by
those who understand the trees.
She sips bitter tea from a clay cup
and names each of the birds
that fly into her view.
She grows berries just for them
on vines that twist about
unsuspecting beams and rails.
A metaphor, she suspects.
She hums familiar melodies to herself
and cracks a wrinkled smile.
The world, as she knows it,
is only ever waiting to be enjoyed.

Click, clack
bucket hat
won't that ghost go home.
Flying around the moon,
silent in the smoke,
in a spaceship made of stone.

Voyage of the ******.
It begins with one.
The man was once a great explorer,
reduced to
the time between six and noon.

Recovery is a process that takes
lies, and
deceit, and
moon light.
Shining through window panes and
smelling of sulfur.

Coo coo achoo.
God bless you.

If the apple rises up in revolt,
what would Newton do?

The world is full of monsters and cheap drinks.
Yes,
the two go together.
Sometimes they hide behind ghosts.
Expect the unexpected to tell the truth
in jazz bars and to
use ***** needles.

Clack, click
the rumors will stick in
the adulterers mind.
Which is funny because the punchline,
wraps around the world,
like a snake crushing the Golden Goose with monstrous jaws.

The ghost struggles to shake hands while,
watching the street collect dust.

The man dies.

So,
now there are two.

Swirling and spinning,
crisp and clean.
The house will be demolished.
Brick by brick by brick by brick.
Windows don't break,
they shatter like glass.
Which makes sense over time.

What if the ghost can't go home?
Then,
there will only be two.

Coo coo bless you.
Cut off before the big finale,
***** curtains dropping
hints that,
the spaceship with be destroyed.

Death will come for the man.
The ghost will go home.
Click,
clack.
There is no bucket hat on the moon,
only the sound of trucks rumbling.
The moon,
like all cheeses,
spoils
the child and spares the rod.

Dish, dash, doom.
Hair slicked back,
the man is lowered into the grave,
looking like fire.
No tombstone reminder.
Just green grass and
mistakes made for two.

Watching in the rearview mirror as the world turns,
finally,
the man is an explorer once more.