standing still  looking at the moon
through the limbs of the
mulberry bush

the taste of wet on my tongue
dew I had licked from her leaf
my thirst

quenched for one moment
gathering all my senses
in all her beautiful

limbs spread bare naked
in the night the silvery
reflections on my mind

the sweetest taste  
both sweet
and natural

and her arms and cries
and her fruit mine
for that moment

the view so much a scene
of limbs and hills and
fair prairies

and bountiful gifts this
from dust creation
might be

a miracle

A hand lifts you up
Whenever the darkness growing becomes a pool you drown in
Even in your pain and fear
You feel angelic hands
Touching the very deepest part of you
A hand of fated love
To give you hope

In the sorrow of your sobbing
You can still hear a beautiful song
Keeping you alive


A hand you hold in the morning
After its laid sweet dreams over your nightmares
Pushing forward
Healing heartache
Caressing your satin skin with delicate fingers
Putting the stars in your eyes
You live again and again and want to live some more
Just to feel this love

Your mind at peace
An angels heart beat
Pumping blood through your veins
Fortitude
You laugh at the pain
And await your next dream
About dancing naked in the rain

*In the sorrow of your night
You can still see these angels hands
Holding the morning

There are no transmissions any more
Just long rocking emotions
sitting on the front porch of life
The skin of our teeth leaves
a vacuous  hunger
for the virginity of thought
But the magic inferred
leaves nothing but a sunset's ray
of goodbye upon the plains
of yesterday's regrets

I spent my boyhood avoiding
      the disgrace of my differences.
Creating alternate empires that
      I ruled with stoic passion.
I gave out negative vibrations, as a boy,
      to control the level of association.
Built walls and lived within them,
       perfectly encased in sarcastic wisdom.
Does not take too long to understand
       that being yourself is not suggested.
Eager advocates educate the boy that his
      differences must be suppressed.
Be the same. Be the same. Be the same.
      Moulded and conformed, unaware
of the boyhood desiring to think for self.
       I spent my boyhood reading books
that opened libraries of imagination.
      Absorbing the solitary creations
of so many magnificent lives. They presented
      me with echoes of alternatives.
I never have understood the slicked back
      membrane of uncentred filters.
Solitary self-confinement made so
       much more tickled sense to me.
I passed out scented cigars of me
       to ear-drums inclined to not listen.
They agreed to, and supported,
       the numbness of not thinking.
Letting the self-declared prophets
       dictate how we must believe.
I spent my boyhood being the boy
      that did not fit the paper model.
Set it on fire. Set it on fire. Let the
       message always be that a man
must indicate his own set of standards.