I walk the day in a bliss,
By nocturnal night of a star's kiss,
I always dream in perfect spirals,
Spindrifting awake through life's trials.

I always dream,
Even under the wide open days,
Upon the ocean
Like crashing ocean waves.

Upon the pain of everyday,
I let it all go,
I joyously stride
To places unknown.

And in the after thought
Of the day gone past,
I dream again
Upon forever a dream,
they do last.

The things we say to one another:
we could
choose
to make them mean something.

I could tell you that I love you,
even though we've never
really met. You could
tell me that you're dying
and it scares you.
We could talk about the rise and fall
of injection-moulded empires,
the rise and fall of your
mother's chest, as she
took her last breath.
We could vow to behead tyrants together.
We could promise
that we'd never fall victim
to that same sickness. We could
compare our hurts and find a
connection
in our mutual pain. We
could try to share our loneliness,
and maybe the world
would be less lonely.

Or at least we could
speak,
like you're a person
and I'm a person, like we're both
made of the same
beautiful, doomed matter,
only separated
by social convention and
accidental skin;
we could say something worth saying.

Instead: plastic bag tax, The Match,
weight loss and where to buy
the best factory-seconds shoes,
the televised finals of something or other,
the rising cost of corned beef, the
obligatory conversation piece
about the weather.

Can't we talk
just a little bit
bigger than this?

Can get you incarcerated , falsely accused ,-branded like cattle,-assigned to a herd--,--held in contempt-,--declared -a criminal-, racism--bigotry at bequest of these hands-, words that separate-,-that shock and offend ..Written language can question with a power unequaled ,-like Democracy itself-, redefining-, respecting all groups-without regard to contemptible , collaborators spearing with self righteous commandments hidden in hate !. Poetry is not for politically correct , faint of heart , or sheep being led to slaughter. She is every emotion that human beings foster , paint for the artist , on the palette of her chosen desire ! At whim , with Fire , write as though you are carving granite , studious , with forethought and with great strength !!

Practical Penelope got up at Dawn to catch a box of  tissues on sale at K-mart to hide her grief at losing another , these men didn't really understand her .
Practical Penelope used paper plates twice , bathed once a week , and walked at night , window shopping , searching for Mister Right , picking up pennies to go in a bank , save up for a spool of thread to **** a sock , and make amends , to father , mother , strangers that scoffed at her for being such a mess , in public even , pushing a cart and picking up papers to write a list , a note about a few lost friends , a diary you might call it , precious thought , neatly folded in a brown paper bag , a reminder for tomorrow for practical Penelope would be on the loose , looking for tin cans and bottles , things that were shiny , walking to work but never finding it , making notes , marking her trail , with gum off the street , wondering , thinking out loud , where are lovers hiding ......

I.
try on the boy who thinks his name is girl. is sister. is daughter. he thinks his name is the one that means everything he's never been and never wants to be

II.
try on the boy who watches things burn and tells no one his name. because they would take it. because it belongs to him and he needs time to fill himself up with it before he can trust himself to share it without losing it

III.
try on the boy who demands people use his name. because it belongs to him. he demands people recognize it. this boy is not afraid to tell people unapologetically what they will call him.

.
Shelter my eyes, with lighted skin,
Touch me with printed flame, rapt
In songs of joy, for I am unarmed,

Lift me to the spiral keeps of soul,
Spires thrusting in hearts firmament,
Set free in curled locks of your hair,

Let us be new as babes are nestled,
Long in the pines of the bristlecones,
Ageless and evergreen in cloudy bed,

Close the lids of night in sensate blue,
In eyes piercing painted skies of dark,
See my shroud cast out with the dawn.

Why not the sorrow
Instead of hopeful constellations
From mythical legends,
Instead of the lost Gardens of Babylon,
Beauteous notions
Of the heart's grandiosity?
If everyday is a struggle,
If each day we try to fill
The void we are born with,
If pain is all too real;
We are born into the struggled,
To be friends to enemies
To make ourselves whole
While trying to find the existential
Moment of truth in ourselves,
As we gulp down joy
And sweat about under the sun.
The sorrowing cannot be claimed,
Though its air chokes you,
Though it eats your luster,
There is the other that one rarely
Finds, joy in the light.
Sorrow is too frequently a visitor.