casts huge leaf shadows on dirt
and the mockingbird's mocking me.

"mockingbird,"
I put my hands in my pocket
and pretend a smile,
"some things you can't out run,
church bells and a wedding dress,
funeral processions and baptisms,
the cop car radio,

she was so beautiful in her wedding dress,"

I'm pointing my finger up at the mockingbird,
"so I'm a few steps ahead of you in heartache,

it was a toss of the dice,"I tell the bird,

"I threw a handful of rice."

"so don't look sad at me, bird.
everyone gets hurt."

and on her branch in the sycamore tree
the mockingbird's crying to me...

"I'm a few years ahead you...
Sweet One, lonely bird.

I've walked through fire,
stared into the wall of shadow and sorrow
into the cold silence of tomorrow.

I hear what you're telling me, Dear One,
loves been a little ******* you, too,

and there in illusion lies the danger
so please be kind, my friend,

the sorrows that never seem to fade away
become the grey, dark sea,
and sunlight through the Sycamore tree.

I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.

I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.

I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten      
the demons of the night.

I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.

I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.

I go to church each Sunday,  
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.

I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.

I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.

I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.

I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?

I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.

I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.

I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.

I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.

I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.

I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.

I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.

I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.

The year I almost drowned
was the year I learned to swim.
I was weighed down pound by pound
and things were looking grim.
My arms flailing; began to tire
and my mouth was tasting salt,
just days ago I warmed myself by fire
and by lying on the asphalt.

Shadow stalks and kicking rocks;
irrelevant if your shoes are tied.
Checking locks and kicking rocks
get carried away by the tide.

The year I almost drowned
was the year I learned to swim.
I could view the sandy ground,
though the image was quite dim.
My head; just barely above the water
and desperately I was gasping for air,
and I could swear it was getting hotter
but the temperature was actually fair.

I’ve got currents and tides
within my mind.
And when I finally rip out my insides;
more water and waves you’ll find.

The year I almost drowned
was the year I learned to swim.
While being tossed and pushed around
I discovered I had every limb.
I could see a shoreline in the distance
it’s beaches with perfect white sand.
It seemed within an instance
I started treading steadily with each hand.

When tenderness became a thing
That left with you, well, I've regained
It - there are men, who care, and show
It, too. Kissing on main market streets
Is a thing. This wasn't supposed to be
Revenge. It wasn't. I asked my friend,
And he said yes. Well, he kissed me,
Like a man. He took what he wanted.
He took joy from seeing mine, and I was
A woman again, and your rejection faded,
And men were men, and women were women,
And all was right in the world. Save that I
Messed up my knee and should have told
My family where I was, why I'd got stuck
After the work-do. I was supposed to have
Helped and all. I have a love already - it is
With those waiting at home, not waiting
To be found on a street corner, cold and
Desperate, like a Frank Sinatra song, sung
Nervously by a girl who wishes she were more stupid.

But, (you whose name dare not cross my lips),
It wasn't so sad. My colleague was gratified -
What do you know of a ten year love story
Falling apart? You, who built me a lifetime
In two weeks. Were I better at talking. Could I
Figure you any more than he could figure her.
Do you know what desire tastes like, your own?
Do you remember mine. Did it feel alien on
Your tongue. Did I feel like "No, this is nothing
Of mine, this is not mine, not this." I wonder.
What do I know about love? I know about seeing
The hurt in someone else, and kissing that.
I know how to care for wounds, and I know
How to rip them open, too. Last night might
Have been the first time I didn't want revenge
On every deep cut men have grafted in my bones.
Someone cared (and people cared at home, too).
Someone wanted me (at home I was wanted, too).
I wanted to cast light onto a shadow in his mind
And found my own darkness again, like you will,
Perhaps, the next girl you take a chance on,
When you need a reminder you still have the touch,
Or when you fall, like a boy. I reach out and I
Find my own wounds, and yours, in the night.
I reach for you, and I find you barred. You
Swallowed the key and the lock, and I don't -
Can't - want to reach into your chest to pick
The lock with my bloodied fingers. Benya,
(Oh I dare), I'd gnash flesh to bone for you
And break that to the marrow, but your name
Would be "Love", and I am not that stupid.

She held a conversation with the cracks in the ceiling,
called them sisters, called them home.
They answered back in whispers
of storms she never asked for.
A thousand tiny earthquakes
under her paper-thin skin.

Her hands were maps to nowhere,
veins like rivers running dry.
She carried every "I'm fine"
like a brick in her chest,
a cathedral of lies built from silence
and the prayers no one heard.

She danced on shards of herself—
sharp edges, aching heels,
the broken girl waltzing with the ghost
of who she used to be.
Each step a soundless scream,
each cut a hymn to the hollow.

And when she shattered,
it wasn’t like the movies—
no slow motion, no violins,
just the raw crack of a soul
splitting open,
a kaleidoscope of pain
spilling into the dark.

The wind gathered her pieces,
spinning them into stars,
while the moon wept softly
for the girl who gave her light
away.

the last day will be a last tomorrow
and yesterday will no longer be a memory.

I walked passed the gardens
The place I kissed you first
Now you've walked away
Leaving my feelings to be nursed
You've already heard please baby please
I'm sorry for the things I've done
Seems like it was everything over the seas
Like it was everything under the sun
I'm drinking high-test and I must confess
I know we can't go back to when it was all brand new
But baby can't you see I'm such a mess
So tell me sweetheart how do I get over you
Honey my heart is in my hands
It slipped right down off my sleeve
Baby I thought a lot of things
But I never thought you'd ever leave
Now all there is to do is grieve grieve grieve

Totally, for ever more, as sure...
Spirited away
With our eyes watching the sun, curious
The glare of history, is with us to say...

I love to see you, love
Cause and creation
When nights roam, spirit even does
The obvious, a heart to know needs sensation...

Has become...
Our soul reason to exist
Letting the lent have a taste of home
We are the people, who have happiness to list

Rage was such an old man
Sitting in his overdue chair
Pregnancy, layovers, and books; have a plan
Will a secret arranged to excuse sharing's stare...?

At this time, the bills came to be paid
Heat, grocery's and rent
Where we were, the eyes of what we said...
Alive, in the name of life, we meant...