She was a plague of desire
a dance of syllables
just out of the reach of his tongue
a name that was a prayer
written on the skin of his heart

a language he couldn’t speak
except when  lost in the trance
of a dream boiling over
with the lust running mad in his blood

a fever burning inside his bones
to feel her tremble against his lips
and wandering fingertips
that travel the forbidden paths
along her spines skin of pleasure

the quite hush of gods making flesh
to be blessed with the secrets
of honey and blood
to be poured over
and flow from the pulse
and the rhythm
of the lost art of making love
while dancing in beds
made out of the shadows of sin

a quite lullaby roaring
from under his pillow
that made his ears desperate
with longing to hear
the songs that play
from within the cage of her ribs

a place of hunger
that could only be satisfied
when left with wanting more
of the blood and the flesh
and the body of her rapture
when lost in the euphoria
of finding love under blankets
woven from lust
and where no pleasure
is stained with the guilt
or definition of sin

to dream of mice dreaming
  to see things different
    than they are
to rearrange reality
  from this state of horror
    to something kinder
      more forgiving

a world absent of hate
   free of ego
    no need for language
      only soft silence
    and unspoken poetry
      harmony and music

no wanting of the wasteful
  no need of needless things
    all desires rooted
      to the heart of love

no more use for the illusion of time
  forever and eternity married
    in the palm of our hands
     day and night lost
      with the wildflowers dancing
        within our pulse

all our blood flowed together
  forming a river wide enough
    for the sun to rest in
      to float down

as we shed our humanity
   and become mice dreaming
     of ourselves
   kinder and more forgiving
     than we are

Sweet love won't you stay with me
Stay here in my bed where I'm lost dreaming
Stay here under my sheets where my body aches with longing
Stay here by my lips whispering your name into my pillow
Sweet love won't you stay with me
Stay in this day where I fall into you a little deeper
Stay as the stars come out and hear them sing in envy of your beauty
Stay under this moon with me and watch the sun go down as my admiration grows ever brighter
Sweet love won't you stay with me
Stay here in my heart that beats quicker for your name
Stay here by my side and in my arms full of desire
Stay here where my soul is yours consumed by your fires
Sweet, sweet love won't you stay

The thing I like about bookstores and libraries is that the front door isn't really a door... or at least not just a door.  It's a trans-dimensional portal, a time machine, a gateway, a secret passage, a hidden staircase... all of them leading into worlds within worlds of wonder and fantasy and facts and science, some made up, some real.   Worlds of good vs. evil and dimensions where monsters and dragons are heros, times before war and planets that have never known peace.  We walk through these doors that are much more than just doors  and we find thousands upon thousands of villans and victims from unknown  cities and deserts.  Sitting on shelves waiting, just waiting for our hands and our fingers to pull them down and open up their stories and turn their pages.  Their lives eager to unfold and dance before our eyes and our minds.  Realms within realms of worlds within worlds within universes and timescapes.  Some filled with goblins and kings, beasts and queens, others demon and magic and possibilities endless.
And as if that isn't enough...we walk into history and future, fill our heads with knowledge and know how, customs and facts, lives lived and lost.  Artist tortured by their craft, celebrities killed by their name and their fame, poets and writers that traded their lives and their souls to solitude to leave us the gift of their words.  Infinite possibilities to teach and inspire ourselves to become anything our hearts can dream of.  The thing I like about bookstores and libraries is that the front door is so much more than a door, it is the first step of a journey, the first word in a book...

who are we without are ****** egos
without are overindulgent narcissism
without are overinflated *****
in our own mouths
swallowing our own pride

how many selfies will it take
before we know our selfs
how much self pride will it take
before we realize we have nothing
to be prideful for

nothing more than civilized savages
of casual cruelty

so quick to anger
so willing to hate
so willful to ignorance

so blind to love

love

the only thing that makes
our miserable existence worthwhile
the only thing that makes our suffering
worth breathing through

yet we sit blind gazing
at our brief moments of eternity

trusting the lust of our eyes
over the truth of our hearts

giving into the desire
of instant gratification
to avoid the fear of being alone
the desperation of feeling lonely

pretending to know love
as we sit side by side
while drifting miles apart
strangers speaking different languages

smiling through the pain
******* away the time
as our flesh erodes
as our bones weaken
as our hearts fade away
from what we could become

how hollow is the echo
of what was once the song
of our hearts
how shallow of a river bed
have we made of our blood
is there anything but oxygen
filling our empty lungs and

if we let go of our egos
if we threw away our vulgarity

what would we find
what would we become

if we closed our eyes
and saw with our hearts
would we feel then
that we could be beautiful
without the cruelty of our narcissism

I know it's hard to belive because I can't really belive it myself and I know I've been in love before but it's never been quite like this and it must be strange because we've never kissed but it feels as if I know the sting of your kiss and it feels like a dream that's already come true but in reality I never was brave enough to admit that I love you and I know how ridiculous and illogical that must sound but I can't deny it was at first sight and I can still see you walking past and it feels as if I turned around you would still be there and it seems cliche to say and even more foolish to belive... Love and first sight?
Love at first sight...
Love at first sight!
That's what happened to me

a poet sits in a corner
mind adrift floating some eons away
nether here nor there
but somewhere in between
yesterday and tomorrow and today

a reflection escaped from a mirror
a voice without a mouth
an ocean trapped in a tear
a story told over and over again
in a forest where every tree growing
makes its own sound

death is a mystery woven
into the fabric of life
grief is the thread
to which we use to mend our hearts
tragedy is the sacrificial lamb
to the alter where we will find
our laughter again

and love...

love is a sweater in the lost and found
waiting to be worn by anyone
in need of warmth
knitted from the softest yarn
from the generosity of kindness

love is row of crooked deciduous teeth
in a fresh bright smile
not yet ready to be traded
for quarters and trinkets
all giggles and sugar
in the innocence of youth
the magic of children

love is adrift
a vibration
connecting every heart
from this corner to that drugstore
from the gas station
to the solemn park bench
both here and there
anywhere and everywhere
looped through yesterday
  and tomorrow and today

What lesson do our children learn
when watching children
****** children in their classrooms
what value do we give their education
when seperating best friends forever
by filling one heart with grief
and putting the other one in its early grave
what child needs to know
the weight and velocity
of the bullets that tore
their once safe world apart

how many tears will it take
to drown out the greed
that allows the trigger of the gun
to be in such an easy place to reach
and the moment of silence has had its turn
and though it may have brought
some small comfort
it did not take the pain away

now we must raise our voices
for the dead
we must raise our voices
for those who have not yet died
we must raise our voices
and we must be loud
louder than the money exchanging hands
louder than the bullets and the bangs
and louder than the rat-a-tat-tat
machine guns song

its more than a matter of safety or control
its the value of the education
we too often forget
forget to teach
forget to remember
forget to live by
the education of kindness
the value of generosity
the need of empathy
the lesson and the gift of love

that we are all the same
no matter our birthplace
no matter what flag we sleep under
no matter what name we whisper
when we offer our prayers
and our hopes
we are all the same
we all live in the same house
no matter how many walls divide us
no matter the mountains between us
no matter the oceans that separate us

we are all in one house
and we are all connected
by the one thing
the only thing
we need to both give
and to receive  
the lesson and the gift of love

let us teach this first
before anything else
because without it
the education we give our children
will continue to be washed away
with the lives of all the children
that we fail to save

There is a lie in every fairy tale
and a secret in every spoon
and both usually stay well hidden
from the time for breakfast
and the hour of bedtime stories
but there is a place
within the telling of dreams
that an old wise witch
of strange young beauty
will read your fate
with only words of truth
that she stirs out of a soup
made out of the alphabet
of the comfortable lonely sky
and feed you slowly
with the spoon
of her mothers grandmothers mother
that has been handed down
from the first star ever born
to the last name
of the last god
yet to be named
or prayed to
and in that instant
you will know every secret
and detect every lie every told
and you will be a  baby
and an old man
and a young girl
stealing her first kiss
from a shy boy
and a butterfly and a snail
and the leaf that feed you both
and you will be
the last tree on earth
and the first flower
to bloom on Jupiter
and the death of Mars
and the heartache of Venus
and you will know
who made who first
and learn that that knowledge
means very little when compared to
the virtues of loves
true heart and reason
and the witch will close your hand
and seal it with a stolen kiss
and smile and laugh and giggle
and give you a mischievous grin
and you will understand
why spoons keep secrets
and the importance of lies
that hide in fairy tales

I can't lie... I've been in love before,
Mad insane love.  A few times, heartbreaking sickening love... but never like this.  Never so deeply rooted and connected to it.
Harpooned and anchored to the shores and seas of this love.  Never before so lost and found, never so much beauty... never so much love.  Its never felt so right, never made so much sense... Never terrified or frightened me more.  It burns me slowly and quickly from the bottom of my heart and throughout my whole soul and being.  Its never felt like this... this good, this great... this...this incredible.  Its feels like I'm hard all over, from my deep within my *****  to the ends of my fingers and my soul and heart and mind... All ready to erupt and explode at just the thought of her name.  I'm happy... A new happy I've never known before... Its mad and crazy and insane and unexplainable... never before have I felt it quite like this.  This mad mad lunatic crazy love... I won't leave, I'll die here and come straight back in the next life.  Time and time again, this love will still be laughing and crying and sighing and smiling long after the hands of time and sand of fate have broken and faded away.  And I'll be right here with it... just waiting for you to join me.

My heart feels too heavy
to carry through another day
which means
it is still alive
still beating
and yet
to be honest
I don’t want to hold my head up
I don’t want to stay above
the waters of a shallow grave

what in this world
will give me back
the will to live
when hate is so quick
to take a breath away
to stop a heart
inside a strangers chest

what thesaurus of fear
what dictionary of ignorance
what is it that defines
the vocabulary of the blood
inside the mind
that loathes the brother
he does not know

the senators keep praying
praying for another distraction
the congressmen keep thinking
thinking of no one but themselves

and we just mindlessly nod
and bob our heads
debating who is to blame
pointing fingers while ignoring
our own reflections

apathy keeps us choking
on our own silence
and why are the living so quite
how is it that the dead
with no air in their lungs
no movement in their hearts
can sing so much brighter
can speak so much louder
than so many of those
that are still alive

nothing good will come
from the living
who refuse to speak for the dead
and the dead must be sick of dying
and I wonder why the grieving
aren’t sick to death of grief

and in all honesty I find it hard
to live another day in a world
that can make my heart

feel so heavy

too heavy

to carry through another day

but its there in that weight
isn’t it
that heavy
that burden of hope
that we know we are still alive
that are lungs can still take
and give breath
that our hearts can still beat
still pound beneath our ribs

and there in our pulse
no matter the weight of our hearts
should we not always
find the will to be alive

It in the lines and curves
of the syllables of her name
written in cursive flames of poetry
he found himself lost
in the hopeless tragedy
of ill fated fairy tales
and humorless comedies
of suicidal love affairs

and the thought of her smile
made him cower
to the shy dark corners
of silence and solitude
where he quietly dreamt
of what fury and flavor
her lips bleed when locked
in the eternal moment
of loves first kiss

and he blushed a little
as she slithered under the wants
of his skin
and he felt short of breath
and quick of pulse
as he imagined what witchcraft
she could weave
with her fingertips
gliding over his skin
and through his ribs
before settling her hand
over his trembling heart
and claiming it as her own

and he would glady
give her his heart
and his sins
and his flesh
and his soul
for what good could he do
with any of himself
but play the part of a fool
in the presence of the stars
beyond the heaven he found
in the endless song of her eyes

and on the blank pages
he kept under his sheets
and cover of the blanketed night sky
he wrote the syllables
of her name in cursive flames
and drifted through dreams
of love under the bloom
and shape of her smile

what a beautiful thing life is
that we can find moments
of joy in our tears

that we can become so happy
that we find we are unable
to do anything but weep

that we can find love
in both comedy and tragedy
in the simplicity of smiling
in the complexity of grieving
small gestures of gratitude
little acts of kindness

how lucky are we that we can find
our hearts with an over abundance of love
that love can overflow faster
than our hearts can beat
and our hearts can beat faster
than a falling star
desperate to find a last wish
faster than a hunger cheetah
and the gazelle trying to outrun death

how lucky am I to be here
to still be here
when there have been moments
when I had carelessly wished that I wasn’t
how many pennies have I tossed away
on thoughts that weren’t worth
the cost of thinking

and somehow I am still here
against the odds of my own self doubt
against the bets of my own loathing

how many times have I felt
that the days were too cold
the nights too long
how many winters
have I invited to stay
to keep the possibility of spring
from blooming in my heart

how poorly have I managed
both the gears and wisdom of the clock
what a grand illusion we make of time
to paste numbers on its face
to give it hands that cannot hold
what it can only watch slip away

to give measurement to something
that has no end
had no beginning
as if to mock infinity
to entrap eternity
to something so small
we could wear it on our wrists

much time is wasted
and I know this to be true
for a have wasted more
than my fair share

and yet
I am still here
and lucky to be so
what a strange and wonderful gift
to feel the autumn of death
slowly creeping through my bones
to be granted access
beyond the curtain and illusion of time
to see the magician
though a thief and a liar
is the same a fool as any can be
as many are

tomorrow is the same as today
and yesterday is still here
time cannot be tensed
by past or future stress
it can only be here
here for this one brief moment
this one short glorious pause of eternity
this long yawn slowly interrupting infinity
stuck somewhere between
the laughter of children
and the last breath of the dying

and how lucky am I
to be here
to still be here in a life
where I find moments of joy
in tears I am only
too happy to weep

We are allowing ourselves to be manipulated
by a false narrative of structured thought
that strips us of our natural intuition
to find joy and happiness
in the basic and simple things in life
We are born creative and loving and kind
and that is slowly stolen from us
as we are pushed through an educational system
that programs us into a belief system
of follow a path of repetition to find success in life
We are branded with an artificial
definition of intelligence
these are the important facts
and these are childish whims and hobbies
Do this and don’t do that....

work play
work work play
work work work play
work work work work work play
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work hard enough
and maybe one day save enough money
and then you can afford a small vacation
and then back to work work work...

know the facts
past the test
find a job and repeat the same thing
over and over and over....
then some where along the line
find someone who is comfortable
with having the bare minimum
of what you are allowed
to believe we deserve
date
****
marry
buy a house
a car
reproduce
and push those offspring
through the same structure of repetition

When and where along the line
did we become so numb and negligent
to think that this is a life worth living for
worth fighting for
and at our very worst moments in history...
worth dying for?  
Nothing about this
is a natural way of living

We are prisoners to a vocabulary
of useless ideologies
that we have built around our own minds...

the caged bird sings
only because we allow it
to see enough of the blue sky
to dream of flight and freedom
and then while it sleeps
we secretly trim its wings
so it can never venture past
the bars of the only home
it has and will ever know...

and this is what we have given up
and continue to give up
our ability to dream
is our ability to do better
to be better
and yet we settle for a life of something less...

The HEART of
         My ENEMY
      For the BLOOD of
        My BROTHER
will bring the
  BROTHER of
          My ENEMY for
        The BLOOD of
           My HEART and
             so on and
              so on and
               so on
           until we are
             knee-deep in
                DEATH
                  and all the
                     OCEANS
                           turn
                              **RED

I recieved my very first "hate" mail today... I was very excited and thrilled, because as we all know you aren't doing something right until you make someone angry.  That someone hates what you do with enough passion to take time out of their own life to point out how horrible your work is.  Unfortunately before I received this exciting news, I had in fact not considered myself a wtiter or poet, and even now I still do not.  I'm a theif and a fraud, I steal words from the silence of the night or the drumming of tires on the road, nothing I've ever said hasn't already been said before and by someone who hasn't said it much better.  By those that have dedicate their eduction and blood and heart to the craft.  I'm nothing more than an echo of the parrots that came before me and I have never claimed to be anything  I am not.  None the less, my words are honest and my intentions are of pure heart.  I have lived a good life, full of mistakes, regrets, failures, success, love, loss, love again, loss again, I drank enough for three lifetimes in just over a decade, among other activities of those who prefer the night... I've wooed a few or more pretty faces while shaking my money maker night after night after night, how I once loved to dance...
Life has slowed since then...  My heart grown wiser and stronger from the friends that I have been lucky enough to connect with through my reckless young adult life and current much tamer days... And of course theirs my son, who I knew I owed the same good influence my father was to me.  He has made fatherhood easy.  He never had a terrible year, not at 2, 3, 4... ever... always just good, mellow, never threw a fit when hearing the word no... I've never had to treat him like a kid, he has always just been a little person.  Too smart and too wise for his age... I once asked him what he would do if he won 8 hundred million dollars, without hesitation he answered, "I would give it to St. Judes Hospital and sick kids and hungry people and homeless people...".  So I asked if he would keep any of it and he thought for a second and replied, "Maybe $50... because nobody needs that much money dad!"  There are more stories... but all good parents have their endless tales to spin.  We are all proud of our fastest little swimmers.  And isn't that the odd little link we all share... we were all at one time in life the fastest little swimmer.  It's the little things that make it all worth the useless heaps of bs life throws at us.   Duck and roll and take a bath whenever your not quick enough.  Stand in the steam and warmth of the water and when your nice and squeeky clean, be brave for a minute and turn off the hot water and let the water turn ice cold and breath deep until you can't take it.  You won't regret it.. it's a little moment... Wait... I can't remember why I started to write this... well you know, the autumn years of life... Its been a good life this far, I've done more good than bad... I don't fear the judgment of any god that may or may not exist, so I'm sure not going to fear the judgment of my fellow man. So enemy or friend, choose your label if you must, peace, love, and happiness to all.

Its all horrible
We write it badly
We treat it poorly
We swim in it
We bath in it
We **** in it
We pollute it
And then we drink it all down
With all our dirt and filth
And blood and *****
We foam at the mouth for it
Perpetually thirsty for more
Hungry for our own human excrement and disease
Smearing ink in lustful fits
Burning paper and prayers begging the stars to deliver us to love
Or in true desperation
From love
Dog earring every page of a thesaurus
Yet never touching a dictionary
Four letter words disguised in elegant metaphors
All the flash of a deadpan affair
Of little meaning and no significance
We trudge through it day after day
Wasting our yesterday's
Chasing the forever distant tomorrow
Completely forgetting today again and again
We claim to dream
But never sleep
We die before we ever live
We only love to pretend
And only pretend to love
While whispering that four letter word
In the dark
Under stars and sheets
Moaning the minutes away
Grinding flesh over bones
Faking death as we carelessly spill life
Between ******* and on low backs
The four letter word echoing along our spines
As we come down from hollow ectasy
Then we bath in it
Swim in it
Pollute it
Treat it poorly
And worst of all write it down
The horrible act of poetry

If you saw her heart
you might mistake it for gold
but I know it is the color of sunlight
lemons and tangerines
the sweet blood of honey
the song of the first morning bird

when god asked for light
it was her who split open her ribs
and it was the radiance of her heart  
that filled all that was once dark
and when god saw her
god trembled in awe
and wept the first tears of joy

and where gods tears fell
all the  dreams of love
and all the dreams of beauty
fell from those tears
and they swam out
into the empty cosmos

it is there in her chest
where the sun gets it color
where all light is born
from her heart
made out of sunshine
lemons and tangerines

filling what is empty
lighting what is black
giving dreams of love
giving dreams of beauty
giving meaning to everything
giving meaning to life
all life

The armless beastly dreads
Of fang and tooth and head
Whispering doubts and fears and hate
Dripping cold stale lies
Of how pathatic
Your heart bleeds
And your eyes dream
And that happiness
Is just a hollow hope
They drip and melt
Their misery to coat
Your soul with
Their venomous despair
These armless beastly dreads
Of fang and tooth and head
Have nothing but their tears
Having long lost all they held dear
Ghastly mists of fright
Hunting for souls lost at night
Hunger for hearts they find
Too beautiful for this world
They took Van Gogh
And left not a trace
Of their murderous deed
And the list of all
That they have taken
Is longer than the history of sorrow
Their most notorious crime
Their greatest parlor trick
Is that they are invisible to most
You will only know them
If they have claimed
Your heart and dreams and hopes
As their host
The armless beastly dreads
Of fang and tooth and head

For a lot of people it is without a known source or trigger or point of orgin that depression will sit in.  They may be fine one moment and then the next a dark cloud suffocates their heart and  venomus thoughts stab into their minds.  And all they can do is shut down, close themselves off, climb in to a dark hole and then mentally and emotionally abuse themselves.  Afraid to say anything because we will call them crazy or too sensitive or worse completely ignore the problem and say something like "man up wuss"  or "you're such a pretty girl, smile don't be sad"... We send alcoholics and junkies to rehab with love and well wishes but treat depression like its nothing more than a bad day out of life, here's a lollipop stop your crying.  People are broken inside and lost and feel alone and very often it's because somewhere in their life they just cared and loved too much... And we repay their kindness and generosity with apathy and ignorance and half hearted sighs as we roll our eyes.  No one stopping to imagine the unimaginable burden and darkness that is going on inside their hearts and souls.  No one able to bare to try and feel for a moment how bad some one has to hurt where death is the better option than life... Let me repeat that... that death is the better option than life ...that the pain and hurt and thoughts have become so bad that they feel death is the better option.  And too many caught in that moment, feel they have no one to turn to, no one willing to accept and belive them that they are depressed and that they just need at least one person to be there with them, that no one is willing to belive they hurt that bad... and then.... BANG ... their gone.  And then for a split second we can all hear the silent monster and see the invisible disease, a second to late to help and a second many of us will wash clean from our eyes.  Because its just to horrific to remember and we're afraid if we open ourselves up to the reality of depression we ourselves will end up another one of its victims.  
Depression is real and it is real scary and those suffering need our acceptance and acknowledgement that they are suffering a horrific disease most of us couldn't cope with.  When we know someone who has it so bad they can't get out of their hole, we need to climb down that hole and sit down in the dark with them.  If they want silence we give them silence, if they want to talk we listen, if they want to cry we cry with them.  We let them know we belive them, give them our compassion and love and empathy.  Don't just be there for them, be there with them.  If we just give them a ladder out, they might come up but then when were not there with them, they might just fall back in.  You really have to let them know, I'm here with you, in or out of this hole, I'm with you, you're not alone.  It's ok to be depressed, its ok to be you.  Maybe you'll get better, maybe you won't, either way I'm here with you.

You got to use it all, all of it, your whole lousy stinking life.  Put it down on paper, scribble it with your pens, hit your typewriter hard and fast, pound it all down until your knuckles bleed white hot blood and scrawl it out with your last breath.   Give it your all until everything aches and drive it through the cold lonely nights down roads going to nowhere but heartbreak and faluire and pain.  And when the weight and depression kick in and get too heavy push down on the gas even harder and drive straight towards the edge laughing.  Let it punch you in the face until your eyes are swollen and you can't see anything but the darkness and despair and dance there with your guts spilling everywhere and your mad heart spewing out its broken teeth and black blood.  Don't forget to laugh, a howling and insane laugh!  Don't just be the bad punch line, be the whole god ****** ******* joke.  Use it all, all the misery and horror and loathing and pity and let your **** get hard and your ******* wet and just enjoy the ******* pain of it all.  Get drunk off it, get high off it, get off off it and spit your life back in its own face.  Just ******* be yourself for all it's worth.  Live painfully so you may die beautiful. And for **** sake, love madly or not at all.  Don't buy that fake *** hallmark puke, it isn't worthy of the stink of ink its printed with.  True love is only found in the beating hearts of lunatics down on the dance floor in hell.  They may not always dance that great, but man, they are ******* beautiful.

A hammer is useless
without a hand full of nails
except for some kind of ******

speaking of which
isn’t your ego overdue
for its crucification
to absolve you
of all your flagrant
self inflected sins

and not to bash on your intellect
because I know
there isn’t much of it left
as almost all of it
has been spent
on the overindulgence
of your self gratification  

you can pound it out
night after night
pretending that you love
everything there is about Jesus
with your hands
clasped in prayers
while making fists full of hate
believing you got a key
to the golden gates

while all you do
with your hammer
is **** any idea
that doesn’t align with your own
your heart is beating
for the only love you know
and that is your love for hate

believe what you want to believe
but even with  a hand full of nails
all you can do is ****** yourself
as some kind of idiot martyr

he had fallen asleep reading
and the book laid with the pages
pressed to his chest
he could still hear her voice
narrating the story
even as he snored now in his sleep
even though she was only imaginary
a small comfort of fiction
to keep his heart warm
through the winter of his bones

she rearranged the letters
as she slipped off the page
and slide out from under the book
and laid beside him for a moment
watching him breath
watching his chest rise and fall
watching his heart
  thump against his ribs
she sighed a small sigh
as she carefully lifted
the book from his chest
and closed it
she kissed the tips of her fingers
and then as soft as breeze
touched them to his forehead
she wanted to stay
to fall asleep next to him
to wake up in the same dream
but she knew if she slept
he would turn to smoke
and disappear into the bathroom mirror
she reluctantly stood
and took quite footsteps
towards the bookshelf
placed the book back in its spot
and ran her fingers along its spine
the book purred
and she smiled a sad smile
and spoke without speaking
and said “until next time my friend...”

she snuck out the window
and climbed up
and through the clouds
she sauntered and wandered
around the moon
and waited patiently
as her eyes hopped
from star to star
until she caught the glimpse
of a comet
and hitched a ride on its tail
setting a course
through an unknown time
of an untold adventure

she fell asleep in
the vast emptiness of space
and dreamt of dreaming
and somewhere in the dream
she heard his voice
telling a lie
a harmless mess
of obvious mischief

and they both smiled
a smile bigger
than any smile
could be imagined

she is a dream wearing a black dress
with glints of starlight
escaping the surface of her skin
and her hair flows long
into the river of the night sky
and she carries the warmth of home
in the cool colors of her eyes

you’ll think off her every time
your favorite song comes on
all of them

she is the heart beat of every melody
the love whispered in every prayer
the name you will never know
and the name you will never forgot

a dream wearing a black dress
floating in the grace of starlight
along the river of night
the road to the flowers
that bloom in eternities hand
a warm heat beating
in a dream wearing a black dress

Sometimes I wonder...

   if you and I...

     would be comfortable...

       being alone....

         while just sitting....

          near each other...

            breathing easy...

             slow....

              no destination....

                listening to the silence...

             in between the sounds...

           of our hearts beating...

         a solitary pair...

       alone together...

     no love to feed...

   no human needs...

  two players...

on a single stage...

no winds of worry...

   no words of rage...

     no climbing hope...

       just sand slipping...

        starlight fading...

          dimming into darkness....

         wondering...

       why...

     are...

   we...

  all...

so...

comfortable...


  being . .  



          
       alone.

The 13th hour will be the hour that it is too late
the hour that we will have gone too far
the hour that we have done too much damage
the hour we will all whisper with dread
  “My god, what have we done?”

The 13th hour will be the hour
that the gods and the sons of gods
and the stars and the spirits and the ghosts
will not believe our prayers
and will not speak to us kindly or of redemption
for we will not be able to claim
that we knew not what we did

The 13th hour will be the hour
that mankind despite its genius
despite all its innovation
despite everything beautiful
it could become
instead used that hour
gave that hour
to the hearts
of hate and fear and prejudice
and man
if any are left
after that 13th hour
will have to pay for his own sins

Paint until your colors weep
Weep until your pain writes
Write until your words are drunk
Drink until your heart cries
Cry until your eyes sleep
Sleep until your soul wakes
Wake up in the middle of dreams
Dream in the wind that carries you to love
Love completely as it burns
Burn completely into love
And love always

Little girl Little boy
All this noise in the world
And no one is listening
No one is noticing all the wrong
All the ugly words to the song
Children sitting gathered at tables
Laughing as they should
Laughing while they can
Life fast at their heels
Horror awaiting to replace their innocent
   days
And whose daughter will go first
Whose little girl will lose her will
      To smile
       To trust
        To love
Whose precious ray of sunshine
  Will be dragged
     To
        Dark alleys
         Dark couches
           Dark beds
Whose little flower will be
         Stomped on
         And crushed
         And dismembered
      And left living a life
      Constantly wishing for death
And who would do such a thing
   To such a sweet little smile
  Will it be by
    Monster or cousin
    Or uncle or father
    Or neighbor or stranger
    Or husband or freind
And whose little boy will lose his way
   Lose his way from patience
   And kindness and love
   And respect
Whose little boy will grow into brother
  Of brother of father of wealth
    And of name
Whose little boy will be taught by
  ignorance and ***** that he must be like
  the father of his brother of his brother
  of name and of wealth
Whose little son will grow into the monster
    of the illusion of being a man
Means taking whatever he wants
   whenever he can
Whose little monster will be left to wander
  and stray
    So far far away
     From the days of being
      A monster was only
        pretending and play
I sit and I sip coffee of sugar and cream
  And I wish and I pray that this was all
   A bad dream
But I cannot refuse or deny it
All this horrible horrible noise
Among the children laughing
With naive painted grins
I shudder inside of thoughts of their
                                       innocence gone
I tremble to know of futures of
                                        terrible wrongs
Whose will grow into murders of racism
  and hate
Whose will find themselves victims of ****
Whose will find themselves innocent
  locked behind bars awaiting death row
Who will turn into monster and beast
Who will turn into hero and friend
Whose little boy
Whose little girl
Will brave the road and pave the way
  To a future of endless
               Innocent days
It cannot be a day too soon
Let us hope it is not a day
                  Too late...