I want to believe in a world
Where ashes do not go back to ashes,
Where dust will not go back to dust,
Or into the bones
Of oblivion.

I want to believe in a world
Where hats would drop off
When the artist speaks,
Or sows together pieces
Of melancholy and precision.

Yes, I want to believe in this perfect world
Where a thought can be bought
For more than a penny,
But for a whole
Golden mine.

This world is both yours and mine,
So please believe in it,
So we can stop beating around the bush
When it comes to you and me
And art.

I am surrounded by a desolate landscape
Atop a tower of varying height
In a world bereft of power
No warmth, no cold
To feel in the sun's lake.

I stand atop a tower
Surrounded by a distance limited
No sound
No movement,
And yet
The rush of wind
Resounding in my mind.

I stand atop a tower
My body floating on its roof's midst
I stand atop a tower
Of height appearing small
And yet
I cannot bring myself to leap.

What is it that I want?
Staying atop this tower
What is it that I want?
Feeling naught
But the rampant silence
What is it that I want?
Is that a question I even want to answer?

I like my coffee black
I like my liquor clear
I like my women green
And my truck so blue
I like my lakes that way too
I like little white lies
Brown boots with chartreuse ties
I like redheads
And yellow cake
with cream frosting
And my oranges orange
and tangerine dreams
I like purple mouthtains
Full of silver majesty
As a golden sun goes down .
And girls in pink
That wink

it's like I'm playing 'doctor' with myself
telling me that "this won't hurt a bit."
I guess that I'm not lying to myself
I don't know if it hurts to quit

no experience--sometimes you really only get one shot
no, not a shot, too messy--this is a chance
but  I hope I've tied a good one
like one try on your first shoe-tie, and then having to dance

it's a tad nippy out the windowsill
the rope is so languid in my hands
it looks just like my neck probably will
but pondering is not what this demands

a nice rope, not too fat, too thin
although, a little itchy, adjust it some
it's funny I still care about itchy
it's funny that I can't go numb

Don't be scared, Love;
show me your scars.
Give me a piece of your soul,
and maybe a glimpse of your mind.

I could show you beauty,
without a field of flowers.
And an amazing high,
without the foul aftertaste.

Just let me in,
let me feel your pain.
I'll touch your soul,
and make you go insane.

My love, is like that of
A plant and an oxygen molecule;
It enters my heart and
Nourishes my soul
So that
When it takes its leave
And I see it again,
In its changed form,
Its value is lost to me.

My love is like that of
Alcohol on a wound
Its intoxicating nature pains me
And yet cleanses me
So that when the pain disappears
And the alcohol evaporates
The wound feels prolonged pain
Til it heals,
Even then leaving a scar.

My love... is like that of
A fading memory
With passing time
And lack of remembrance,
When brought forth again,
It becomes a wistful memory.

My love is
Ever so fleeting,
Always misleading,
Waning,
Carefully reeling;
Withdrawing in confusion
Shutting doors,
It ignores
The warmth that surrounds it
For the fear of
Hurting again.

In its fear,
My heart begins to tear
My body loses its warmth
My words lose their strength
My mind loses it conviction
My soul...
Suffers, oppressed in its
Painted prison.