there may be
millions of rain drops
but they all come
from the same storm
and the storm always says
the same thing

i’m not telling what though
you’ll have to sit
and listen

you get so tired
that the only place
left to go
is a tunnel inside yourself
and then sleep
til you are whole

i sleep in cages
built of the soft bones
of children unseen,
and lovers unknown.
i sleep in the arms
of the forgotten fables,
the lonely entertainers,
the weary travelers
who got lost in the rain
and could not find their way
out of the storm

wait here,
the future
doesn’t want you.
be here,
the past no longer
needs you.
stay here,
the present
already loves you.

this is the way
the world works:
by threading my arm
through yours
in a floral weave
of madness and grace
and then ripping apart
the light,
sending in the dark,
only to yell surprise!
the light’s been here
this whole time

how well
do you know me
when i take down
my heaviest book
from the highest shelf
and bring it down low
to where the ashes
and the diamonds
are building a bridge
from me to you
and how willing are you
to walk this burnt path
to know me better
than you’ve ever known yourself?

the call of the wild
is the call of the heart;
there is no difference—
both are calling you home

the catch is that
there is nobody there to catch you
because you are the universe
and you have to catch yourself

a prayer for the lonely
is lit
and it burns
red hot doves into the sky
who then relay
the message to the
eternal ones
who light a candle in return

i lived in a house
of lost things
until i realized
everything is where
it should be
and suddenly
the house of lost things
was the only thing
that was lost

if i remember correctly
you picked
the apple first,
and when we entered the house
of the Loved Ones,
it was only then
that you told me
what you’d done
and now i am homeless
and you are still
the one i love

what happened
to my name
when it fell
into the river
of your lips?
where did it go
and where did i go
when we both
drowned
and what did you do
when you felt us
hit the riverbed
of your heart?

so the river came
and bled at my feet
and the river ran
and took refuge
in my heart
and the river flowed
and brought life back
to my bones

take me away
to green forests
where the song
of the lonely
is the national anthem
and when the birds
sing it
it is suddenly recognized
as the song
of the loved

i do not need
a man
i only need
the wandering light
of the world
that has touched
every rosebud
that has burst to life
and lived to tell the tale
of the traveling light

so this is me
deep within the jungle
of myself
howling at a flowerless moon
that will not blossom
until i do

we took our boat out
onto the river of time
and it slipped by us
in silver and gold
in sunlight and cloud
and once we reached the opposite shore
we looked back and realized
that no time had passed at all

she is a
true pretender—
the kind that
never returns
to the scene
of the crime
where reality
was murdered

we are too scared
to admit that
we are already dying, already dead
we are too scared
to admit that
there is more life
in a stone
than in our bones
and we are too scared
to admit that
the river has
already flooded
and already been drained
and we are too scared
to admit that
this life
that we are living
is a sack of seeds
sitting in the attic
waiting to be planted
and that
the only flowers
that grow
are the ones
we name in our dreams

it must mean something
to go away
and then come back
with your heart
in the shape of
a weeping willow

She said, I’ll look for Wonderland
I’ll find it in the snow
I’ll find it in the setting sun,
I’ll find it in a rose
She travelled every which and way
up every staircase to
the promise of a land so vast
full of hearts and tales so true,
but the farther that she wandered
the more she realized
that Wonderland is not a place
but a certain state of mind.

So she sat under her Bodhi tree
and waited for the leaves to fall.
She waited for the silence
and she waited for the dawn;
she waited for the rain to come,
so wet and wild and blue
to cleanse her of the pain she had
mistaken for the truth.

And time grew thinner than a ribbon
and the branches grew so bare
and she found that as her burdens lifted,
so did all her cares.
And when the spring-time came again
as the fates guaranteed it would
she found the birds still singing songs
of everything that’s good.

And no longer were the branches bare,
no longer was there pain—
but now just brilliant green leaves of light
waltzing in the rain.

And she found a new seed sprouting—
one of madness and of love,
and as spring paved the way for summer
she heard the golden secret buzz.
It was a child—no, it was a lamb,
or maybe the Mad Hatter she heard say, that
“Madness is the same as love,
and both just want to play.”

a ribbon of fire
a curl of lace
and your eyes swimming
in the fishbowl
of my heart