Five senses technically
A common physicality.
Distant sight and sound
Wave never mind themselves for now,
Faintest scent and mildest taste
Remembered anyhow, until
A touch so intimate
Can make all time and space, stand, still.
So the intimate will.

Only after my teacher’s words had touched me,
Did I love, love to write.
At once the masterpieces shook me,
The piano taught my hands to play.
What tastes and fragrances seduced and nourished
Every nerve, but not
Before I learned to feel
Their intimacy deserved.

These senses know your beauty
Knows no common physicality,
I need to know that beauty now
With every sense's hands.
Here, your intricacies rival poetry or piano-

How the color of your lips will
Pair the taste of your skin,
The depth of your sighs
Should I caress your back and feet,
The tone of your laughter
Should I tickle you instead-
Vengeful and defiant, or
A sense of pure joy-
With all time and space holding still,
So the intimate will.

It feels ingenuine
presumptuous,
I can call myself a
writer, painter, pianist, singer
but when I create something
and want to share it with the world
I have to give it away.
It belongs to You now-
and it's your place to decide
whether or not
you are moved
compelled
offended
or not.

And if you are
oh criticus prudentibus
You've made it- art.

Some holding out their hope
Others giving up their dead,
Some believing miracles,
More prefering risk-free will.
Some expecting disappointment
Find regret instead,
Some wait for Luck's return
In broken pieces, still.
Some in line against the wall
Wait with vacant eyes,
Some with kids who won't shut up
Just look down and sigh,
Far too many end their days
The way we first arrive.
Dead hopes and broken miracles,
Our televisions thrive.

Why?
When we were children
Were we given
A pile of wooden blocks?
To help us count
Add up, take away,
Spell our name and scream it out.
To build and balance
As tall as possible a tower.
And when it fell over
Rebuild and rebalance.
But so many of us just
Threw the blocks at each other
And cried when one hit us
In the eye

So-
When we were given the oceans and sky,
It wasn't long before we had
Ruined more than we had learned-
A continent of gnarled, congealed plastic
Floating in our graying heaven's reflection.
And given the forests,
We build either twelve-room-summer homes or else
So many million disposable chopsticks.
We grew up unlearning and grow old crying while
Our children ask us
Why? Why? Why?
Were you so selfish for so long?
Because
Children, blocks,
don't come with instructions.