She asked me if I knew your name --
I think it every day.
At night it comes to speak to me
and echoes through my dream.

I've seen the sun set seven summers
in the indigo of night.
I've known the moon to whisper secrets
given enough time.

And I've been made to see
that it could just be me
giving too much time to fantasy,
hung up on make-believe.

I created this feeling,
synthesized it from the depths.
Now my ego's been sent reeling
while my soul's eternal slept.

From extreme-isms oscillations,
first conditional love then none,
this pervasive vacillation
makes me feel I've come undone.

Can I balance give and take
with trepidation's breath?
Would it still be as fake
as giving up what's left?

Idealization's paved the road
from a half-remembered morn.
It's *******'s been the mode
and my soul's what's been torn.

I can't decide which choice to choose
to free me from all of this.
I could set the Furies loose,
if only I knew that help exists.

My problems have grown too massive,
so much larger than my strength.
Perhaps my approach's been too passive
and too drawn out in its length.

I'll try to align my focus, will, and intention,
but my authority is lacking.
My creative mind has no invention,
and of myself I give no backing.

Once my decision has been made,
I'll go forward or be drawn.
Progress's steps will never fade
so let's get on with it, or get it on.

I'll surrender to the task at hand,
bearing knowledge and responsibility.
Cast towards me all reprimand
which I'll greet without hostility.

I'll search out far and wide
for a consistent love's stability.
I'll find it wherever it may hide,
and nurture to the best of my ability.

In that first moment
I knew something was different.
Maybe I was high,
but as I passed by
I noticed how her eyes
wrapped 'round the other side,
and her face gently curved
beyond what I observed.
As I wandered through the store,
I forgot what I came in for.
What I had seen
I couldn't believe:
is this what they mean
when they say "beauty?"
I noticed the ring on her finger,
the piercing in her nostril,
the color of her eyes,
her lips,
her smile,
the sound of her voice
as she bid me good day.

The next day I returned.
The automatic door opened,  
she turned
studied my face.
A smile, then back to work.

"I like your shirt. Are you from Philadelphia?" She asked,
referencing the Philadelphia Folk Festival shirt.
"No, thankfully."

Should I have told my experience of Philadelphia?
Of psychosis bordering on dementia,
of raw confusion and terror,
of stupid decisions compounded with error,
of hopes and expectations,
of my inability to maintain relations?

"Seems like a fun event to see."
"Yeah, it was wild."
"Did you travel all the way out there just for it?"
"No, I worked production."
"Oh, how cool! Would you like a receipt."
"No."
"Have a good day."
"You too."

The next morning I needed coffee,
and a few things for lunch,
and a way to strain
the massage oil I was infusing.
Again, as the automatic door
parted she greeted me as before.
A moment of careful study
before eyes a-flash with recognition
and a warm smile I did my best to return.
I grabbed my things and came to the aisle.
There they stood chatting.
I heard snippets of words,
but I'm not one to intrude
"Sorry for the real talk" she said.
"That's the only way to talk." I nodded my head

I didn't say how my past few weeks
contained realer words than I heard them speak,
how I had to navigate the alleys
of bickering and emotional valleys,
of overdoses and institutionalizations,
of kidney failures and hospitalizations.

"So what are you making...?" she trailed on.
"Oh, pasta or something." My response.
"Pasta and...jelly?" She asked pointing to the cloth
so aptly labelled jelly cloth.
"Nah, man, I've got to filter the coconut oil.
I infused some herbs into the oil.
Now I have to get them out."
"That makes sense. I remember you buying the oil.
Isn't coconut oil amazing?"
"It truly is a miracle."
I can't place the look in her eye.
Do I remind her of another guy?

And while I'd like to get to know her
I've learned to be cautious with a stranger.
'Cause you never really know
from where they're coming
or where they'd like to go.
Maybe I'll head back tomorrow,
buying bread or lord only knows,
but I've been strung along,
strung out,
hung up
to dry
too many times
to have the audacity
to try.

Gather 'round children,
I'll sing you a song
about a land
and what's going on.

Gather 'round children,
lend me your ear.
Open your mind
and get ready to hear

that it takes so long.
It takes too long to be free.

There will be times
when you are just fine.
You're having your way
with good living and wine.

There will be times
when things don't go well,
when no one is near ya,
no one who could tell ya

that it takes so long.
It takes too long to be free.

When we finally
get to Nowhere
we'll be laughing and playing
and filling to air.

When we finally
have us our fun,
we'll be blasting on trumpets
and banging on drums,

but it takes so long.
It takes too long to be free.

Lying and basking
'neath sun-setting skies,
with beautiful pastels
reflecting your eyes.

Lying and sleeping
'neath moon and the stars.
Our love and our life
will never depart,

but it takes so long.
Yes, it takes too long to be free.

When you open your mind
remember to take your heart along.
The mind some words can write,
but without heart there'll be no song.

Standing in the lot,
pointer finger in the air,
praying what I've got
will help me get in there.

I'm looking for a miracle
to get to the show.
The band is incredible,
listen to them go.

My friends sold my ticket
for a tab and a ride.
Talk about wicked
and killing my vibe.

Then a man walking by
whisperin' so I could hear:
"You'll see The Dead while alive
if you take this. Here."

Do what you can
or get out the way.
But don't lend your hand
if you can't take the weight.