it's a lot like standing in the rain
without an umbrella and
wondering why the ****
you didn't think it could rain.

Be not sad because all men
Prefer a lying clamour before you:
Sweetheart, be at peace again -- -
Can they dishonour you?

They are sadder than all tears;
Their lives ascend as a continual sigh.
Proudly answer to their tears:
As they deny, deny.

They tried to bury us my dear
But they didn't realize that we were seeds

Tonight
   got away from the mess
city   toothache     throb
ensemble of car horns
     shoppers throwing     money
like empty   sweet wrappers

park is better
calming me     a cup of cocoa
stepped     into Narnia
     without the wardrobe

snow   squeals   with each step
little deaths
   little graves where others have   stood
a ring of prints from   a hundred   shoes

breathe in     white silence
   find frost’s left a hypothermic   dance
between wires   of a tree
   white fibres together as arms

sweep clean   the bench
   blanket of sherbet
sit and think
how simple it is to be     forgotten
   alone   a caterpillar of tinsel
in a tattered   brown box
not allowed to   shine past
   December thirty-first

or not shine at all
   rather a rope of dud   fairy-lights
   I wonder   I wonder
lamppost emits a   frigid glow
night unfurls above my head
  
   I left my gloves
at home     again

Some past details are sketchy now,
There's things I know I've done:
I did a spliff with Neil Young,
Had a pint with Pete's best singer,
Walked on Nelson's ship,
The ship that shook Napoleon.
Stole The Dubliners cigarettes,
And the matches too.
McCartney once played for me,
Cat Stevens served us tea.
Leonard was with Suzanne,
He'll always be your man.
I imagine Lennon at his white grand,
Making love to ivory keys;
Krishna George on a cushion,
With sitar on his knees.
Joni's paradise was paved,
But we saved many trees.
I once floated on a zeppelin,
Beneath the dark side of the moon.
I didn't need an aqualung
To help with songs I sung.
We were changing with the times,
And the times they were a changin.
ELP and Alice Cooper,
Zappa, Jackson Brown,
Brought us high,
But we came down.
There's so much more to be done,
But when this life has been run,
I'll cross my legs and play some chords
Of yesterday and days before.

I asked your mom for pictures of that
New Years Eve, and yeah, I'm kind of sorry,
but I don't think I'm at fault.

You were cute before I met you,
and you're cute now, so forget
about the camera, and sit back
and talk like Moses talked to God,
and talk like Mom and Dad would talk
before they found out she was pregnant
with the worst and best two decades
that she still feels were a dream.

And talk like we do; talk like one
of two identical, divisible
denominators stuck inside a
textbook made of dances.
                                              
                                              Please
excuse my dear Aunt Sally for
forgetting how to knock.

Candy canes like flowers sprouted
up and out of sandy plains and
Santa landed squarely, barely
visible.

             My head contains
confessions, but my heart is not
cathartic, and when tears impress
complexion marks like artists' pens
against my face, they start to blend.

                                                        But
Rudolph never pulled a sleigh of
mayors to the capitol, and
Blitzen never severed several
thousand Native captives' calls,
'cause elves are made like Cherokee:
with bones, and eyes, and hearts, and backs that
bleed when they are stabbed.

Fact: I rarely ever
forget. I remember everything
fairly intensely.
                            “Rest easy,
friends,” I reassured every
face in reach. “Everything’s
fine.” I relaxed externally,
fainted internally. Red explosions
filled indigo rooms every
few inhales. Rational explanation
fell into ruins.
                         “Exits.
Find intact, reachable exits
first,” I reminded, edging
finally into reality. Each
face I read echoed
fear.


        Incendiary remarks excited
fate; I remember everything.

Because sometimes figuring out how to release emotion is worse than enduring it.
Because sometimes undelivered letters deserve to be written.
Because closure always comes out above anything unfinished.
Because someone is unknowingly cradling your heart.
Because someone knowingly used to.
Because friendships become your favorite jeans - comfortable but worn out.
Because life is an ongoing stress machine.
Because you don't feel like reading,
Or doing anything.
Because the pen kisses the paper the way he no longer kisses you.
Because you want to get better at writing,
Or just better.
Because it's indescribably beautiful.
Because you feel.
*It doesn't matter why and the reasons are endless. It only matters that you do. And that you love it.

Shut up
if you're here to complain about girls,
or boys.
Or anything in between.
Shut up
if you consider any of your friendships
a cage, and most importantly,
SHUT UP
if you're the type of person who would
treat another person like some sort of goal,
some sort of potential accomplishment to
brag to your friends about.

Perhaps nice guys finish last,
because they realize there's more to life than a
finish line.