Today
I woke up and stretched
My favorite thing
Then I went for a walk
My next favorite thing
Then I ate some food
My other favorite thing
Then I took a nap
More of my favorite thing
Then we went to the park
My most exciting favorite thing
Then I peed on a tree
My best favorite thing
Then I played fetch
My super favorite thing
Then we went home
My coolest favorite thing
Then I ate dinner
My yummiest favorite thing

Then I went to bed....
and dreamed of tomorrow....
and all of my things....

*More of the yummiest, coolest, and other super exciting, best favorite things!

And sometimes it happens
That it wells up
A lump in the throat
Something deserving of more than tears
But so suppressed by well-meaning logic
Hidden by a dramatic mask, too well worn
of its true shape, sharp edges removed.

A vectorless emotion
Stuck in a maze made with walls of reason
The unreasonable contained
Rebellious without a cause

Yet so susceptible to a simple kindness
That puts all at risk of disastrous desire, calamitous confusion
Demanding release.
So, those poetic parents; Darkness and Light
In a tryst at their boundaries, defuse the danger
And make, in quiet conception,
Amongst the gentler shadows of the soul
What gestates and finally
In a spasm of wordy contractions
Spills live and ****** into the paper world.

Toilet paper,
                You are the only one who
                Puts up with all my crap.
                You listen when no one else will
                To all my groaning and moaning.
                You share all my private moments
                And follow me from the bowels of hell
                Into the plumbing of despair.

Toilet paper,
                You have seen my most private parts,
                The dark crevices of my flesh,
                Where no one will go.
                And should I sneeze
                You will wipe my nose.
                You will take away my filth,
                And your softness can embrace
                The sewage of my soul
                And the flakes of flesh
                That my heart has discarded.

Toilet paper,
                You are the only one I know
                Who kisses my ***.

I'm right behind you
Riding a bull
No really, I'm right beside you
On the stool
I caught an infection
At the pool
I went and spread it
At the school
I'm waiting outside
At your door
I'm lying inside
On your floor
Now I've got you smiling
Not for long
In a minute you'll be laughing
Like you've been stung
With a laughter potion
By Dr. Who
I'll have you laughing so hard
You'll need a day at the loo
Have a great day
Dont be April fooled
I'll be thinking of you
Until noon.

Come and learn to dance with the clubfoot children,
the lame and the deafened who hear not our beat.
Come on! follow their steps, fractured, untimely
and see where they take us on our broken feet –
for we too are fragile, distorted, un-mended;
we too live life with offence, are offended
and struggle with dancing while missing the beat.

Listen for their song beneath the cacophony
loud and un-metred, assaulting our ears.
Hear in their song the snippets of clarity
telling us how it is they fight their fears.
Improvise counter-point, fit to their melodies
affirm what they sing with our fractured harmonies
and struggle to sing though it bring us to tears.

Look on their visions of horror and cruelty:
swallow the ***** that threatens to choke.
Glimpse now the messages in the *******:
recognise what they are asking is hope.
Then in the vision, the dance and the song
reach for their hand and help them belong
and though then both hurting: together we’ll cope.

The spider, dropping down from twig,
Unfolds a plan of her devising,
A thin premeditated rig
To use in rising.

And all that journey down through space,
In cool descent and loyal hearted,
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.

Thus I, gone forth as spiders do
In spider's web a truth discerning,
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.

Alone now in a strange country,
feeling myself a stranger,
On this bright festival day
I doubly pine for my kinsfolk.
Far away, I know my brothers
will be climbing the heights
With dogwood sprays in their jackets,
and one man missing!

I will be recording human interaction
with an open mind and a type writer.
First,
         I'll write it down in pen
         like we used to when we were kids
and didn't have our own computer (yet),
         or using your mothers to play video games
when you were supposed to be doing your homework.
         somehow achieving straight A's just in time for
                                                                                        christmas:
                                                                                         I watched you
shoot yourself in the foot
with talking to me                                                         (under black lights)
with the same: some-don't-understand-me look on your face,
with eyes that scream  
(just like all the others)     "Pity me."                              
                                           "Forget about me."
                                                   "Just hold me one more time
so I can remember what true love feels like."

on another note: is it wrong that I daydream about us robbing banks together?