This poem is for:
Bluejays that love the blues.
Tigers, not liars.
Beggars, not leapards.
Dogs that walk without leashes
and their human friends
trying to get rid of theirs.
Well rested trees in April,
and all birds....
even penguins.
This poem is for
people who don't take life too seriously.
It is especially for
the ones that
do.

Worms eat the dirt in
front of them
and leave their ****
behind them.
It is a ******,
yet noble existence.
And when the sun comes up
the robin will pull
yet another juicy one
out of the soil.
Until then,
leave me behind, love.
Eat your dirt, love.

The mountains never play dress up
and sometimes I feel
like we shouldn't either.
But that doesn't
cleanse us
of the sad reality
that we do,
the sadder reality
that we can't help it.
We throw lights on trees,
as if the moon doesn't exist,
like a child who makes a cake
only out of frosting.
We put lipstick
on cuts that need stitches,
and I'm reluctant to admit
I find that painfully gorgeous.
We pour dressing
on salads,
and talk about the weather,
and then pour dressing on that as well.
Even when we undress,
we still cover each other
with dots of infatuation,
but neglect the reality between them.
That's where the honey is.
There is a sweetness to our naivety.
It is an unpredictable ghost
that drinks the ocean
through a straw
and sings hallelujah
to draught stricken fields.

I've seen sorry clowns,
happy hobos,
and a sun that's tired.
Lucky black cats
intelligent rats,
and words that expire.
Today I played hopscotch
with my demons
and fell in love
with multiple strangers.
It's easy peasy
lemon squeezy.
Squeeze me tighter.

There is a ballroom
full of gorgeous off-beat
dancers who wear dresses
made of childhood dreams
and shoes that sometimes
still sing
when they jive.
It's a terribly chaotic
and heart wrenching scene
where you can find peace
on a dopamine drive
as that airplane chases the moon
through an open sunroof,
your lifeblood tuned in perfectly
to its frequency.
Go ahead,
play in the traffic
of the extraordinary things
you regularly neglect.

Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I stop drinking
or smoking,
or, god forbid,
both.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
I think I might
do something really stupid
like pray,
or move to California,
or get a tattoo
of an empty pale blue dot,
or throw myself to the lionesses,
or write poetry,
or call her.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that lilacs turn black.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I make statues
of happy people
out of the rocks
at rock bottom.
Sometimes
it gets so bad,
that I shoot
hummingbirds
with 24 caliber regrets.

There are sidewalks
soaked with apathy.
There are ladders
that were intentionally
built to be
almost tall enough
to reach the fruit
on the tree that your soul aches for.
You'll thank yourself later.
It will always mean more to you
if it is constantly just beyond your fingertips.

Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I see the ghost
of the person I thought you were
In the smiling
eyes
of a brand new human.
I see fire escapes
and think of the best hypomanic episode
I ever had.
And then
It gets so bad
all of it rushes back
and the knife
that once cut me free
guts me.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I dare it to get worse.
And then it does
and I start to laugh
like some kind of
*******.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I start
to love myself.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that caterpillars
make me cry.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
I melt away,
and all that is left
is the music of revelry.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I wear down cinder blocks
with my tongue,
and those black lilacs
don't get their color back,
but I see them as August.

He fights a good fight.
You can say what you want
about that boy.
But he fights a good fight.
It's okay
if you don't understand him.
No one does,
not even himself.
But he fights a good fight.
And all around him
butterfly wings freeze
and old women hack up
mucous.
Baby birds wait
in a wet November nest
for a mama bird
that never comes.
He blows kisses,
with a mouth
that limps
when it smiles,
to sinners just like him.
He's not always right,
but he fights a good fight.
Waters his garden
with tears,
reaches with scarred hands
into bushes full of thorns,
pulls out berries
and gives them to people
with thin and tender skin.
You can say what you want
about that boy.
But he fights a good fight.