There is the ancient story of a shepherd boy
whose king outfitted him with armor
to ready him for the challenges of the day
and the boy could not walk
so he threw off the armor
picked up his sling
and tended his father’s flock
with peace and joy freely erupting in song.

My armor is not wealth or wit
I cannot make myself fit
into the current conventions and hype
trying to conform to the normal type
stops up the energies that yearn to flow
freely and gleefully and urge me to go
to the dawn, darkness, clouds and sun
to wrap myself in words that run
like sparkling streams
and windswept dreams.

Poetry is my armor for each day
where worries and problem allay
where I search my feelings and mind
for the word elixir loosening knots that bind.
This armor does not weigh me down
but frees me to my triggering town
where I find and create the poet me
and the landscape of my soul’s poetry.

Sad eyes of scribbles underneath your furrowed brow
Weather beaten, masticated, bashed
The lines of your face burrow and settle in to dwell
They check their mailboxes, set up lemonade stands
And drudge up demons beneath pores
Once you were alone in your purity
The occasional blemish or two
Nothing to make into cities
Nothing like decrepitude

They are the destroyers,
They have come through air,
Burning our streets and
spreading out despair,

With their stolen voices,
They have joined the laugh,
Burning through the corpses,
The righteous attack.

We are fallen warriors,
bodies rot in dirt,
We are eyes of ravens,
The blood of the earth,

With a rusty weapon,
We will spread the word,
The swords of our forefathers
are not of this world.

The cloud will spread,
The sky is dead,
Remains are bared,
The sky dies scared.

No mercy!
No freedom!
No mercy!

I.
Her blade was quenched in limestone brine
Its sable haft laced with golden thread.
Atop the palace walls, she treads lightly
In her robe woven thin as cicada's wing

II.
When I saw his children past the silken screen
again-- from atop the cedar crossbeam--perhaps
I should lightly retreat but I lingered still:
until he saw silver ribbons that tied my hair
He (I had thought) unlike those lives I severed  
can live to tomorrow (but our gaze had locked!)

III.
A swing, a flash, an unfelt wound-- she moves
with Gansui's fury, and Chunjun's spirit
And softly these shattered visages laid to
a dreamless rest upon her gracious touch.

We slept on the spare couch
A half remembered dream that I have bled for
My eyes drenched in slumberous salt
Dewy eyelids threaten to close
And yet we chase sleep into the desert
With bells dragging behind our backs
To have rest rob our pockets
A tsunami in the grave
A half remembered dream of rooftop travels and serenades
Hushed giggles in the dark
This dream that I have suffered and died for
A dream I have given my life for
Starts to fade anyway