Where did all the poets go?
I can't find them on the streets.

Where did all the lovers go?
All I see is lust and greed.

Where did all the culture go?
It didn't come with my degree.

Where did all the passion go?
It's just rote monotony.

Where did all the thinkers go?
Instead of blank redundancy.

Where did all the peacefuls go?
Did they join the milit'ry?

Oh, I don't think I'll ever know.
Where did all the virtue go?

Fear will take shelter
under the rafters of faith.

Allow the building to collapse;
no harm can come from

the liberation of becoming unmoored.
All beliefs must come to an end.

It is okay not to know, so long as
the mind remains open without

hoping for a solution
or fearing a rejection.

That is freedom.

I'm trying to understand
whether I miss you
or the way I feel
when you're near.

When day or night collide with frantic circumstance,
I'm left to pick the pieces up of sacrificed romance.
Could it be that I'm the unlucky one with nowhere left to stay?
Though I'm not pining for the moments that I passed along the way,
or the shades of broken people that are too afraid to heal.
They've left their hope behind, dressed in threads unreal.
Their heavy hallowed hearts are covered and still too far behind
and burdens burn their words when they lie and say they're fine.
Still, beauty spins from every fragment ruptured from their skin
as eyes and teeth twist together in a whirlwind of a grin.
I'm trying to be a full person, from my hair down to my feet
and stare down every obstacle while beaming from my seat.
For fortune has no favor, and I have no power to make it sway.
There's nothing you can do for me but close your eyes and pray.

With a wave of my pen I morph cobras into locusts as the myriad creatures shift out of focus. I surf a million empty channels on the wings of a prayer before I get fed up and vaporize into molecules of air. Then I suffer through the turbulence of empty-headed, vacant eyes and twist among the falling leaves to the palace of the sky. But who am I? I'm the archer tripping ******* the flaming arrows of Apollo. I'm the soldier who finds no joy in the enemies I've slaughtered. I'm the passion for the precipice and the thrill of falling of this. I'm half of a tenth of a femtosecond from leaping off these rafters with no real concern for what may happen to me after. I'm waking up at 2 a.m. from fevered dreams of mushroom stems as the room shifts black and blue and everything's illumined with the wisdom of the moon. I would rather be a de-fanged monster rolling in a ditch, fantasizing about facets on the gem of Might-Have-Been, starving for nutrition and the comforts of a friend, dying from this fatal case of gut rot than parade around with people pretending to be something that I'm not.

In the shade of a willow,
down by a stream,
I wander down the hallway
of my fantasy.

I'm drifting like a cloud,
a shadow in the sky,
trying to find the courage
to go ahead and try.

I'm looking 'round at beauty
that's battered to the ground,
trampled by the people
blindly wandering around.

It's got me feeling hopeless.
I'm really feeling down.
Is there no one here who loves me
in this God-forsaken town?

I'm ignored by the strangers,
polishing their diadem.
What they all believe
is a wish fulfilling gem.

Life has got me thinking
that it's hard to find a friend.
I think of all those little games
that I don't comprehend.

I'll recognize your face
when I see you in the crowd.
I'll know you when you say
my name out loud.

Where are you, my lover?
Have you gone and lost your way?
Have your forgotten
everything you'd like to say?

I'll wait for you, my darling,
honest, brave, and kind.
I'll think about the mysteries
and magic we will find.

Walking by the river.
Footsteps in the sand.
Everything I say to you,
I know you'll understand.

Draw up your skirt, O woman of temptation.
Then watch yourself flirt with no contemplation.

Attracting the slack-jawed -- the ignorant ***,
whose thinking is drawn to *** as you pass.

Set bare your breast to these "love-confessors"
and bare all your flesh to the fangs of oppressors.

Make them pay for your meals, for your wine and delight.
Then let them steal you away in the night.

Put feathers in your hair -- the peacock's vanity! --
Then watch the men stare and whisper profanity.

Wear lace and sheer clothing; hide not from their gawking.
Then listen, with loathing, to the non-sense they're talking.

Perfume yourself in myrrh, draw all senses in your direction.
Then drink in their ardour, and their misplaced affection.

Build tall your chancel with pleasure and desires;
play the distressed damsel, O great queen of liars!

You'll find soon enough the emptiness of touch.
You'll call your own bluff, and drop what you clutch.

But until then, sullen temptress, drive yourself from my door.
Leave my sight, but don't distress; I've no want for your flesh any more.

Something about you hit me over the head.
It stopped me and demanded that I pay attention.
If you could see yourself from my perspective
would you recognize your pattern,
or would my mind's symbolic formulations
elicit vague, unknown connections?
Have you seen your half-closed eyes
as twin crescent moons caught bathing
at the waterline, innocent yet fully exposed
with your mischievous grin whispering bubbles into foam?
Have you seen your kaleidoscopic iridescence
pouring outwards in a whirl, projected as a flaming wheel
spinning without consideration to the bounds of our perception?

I want to shake you now and make sure you understand.
You're heading to the top, love! It's not the time to play pretend.

Yay, 'though I'm lost and I'll never be found.
My ship set sail without a sound.
Good-bye Earth! Good-bye solid ground!

Yay, 'though I'm off and I'll never be seen.
My destiny lies in between
Winter's death and Spring's first green.

Yay, 'though I'm gone and I'll never return.
I've got no other life to burn.
I've got no other wheel to turn.

Yay, 'though I've left and I'll never resume,
someone else will finish my tune.

Your image keeps a silent vigil
in the hallways of my mind,
reminding me of simple beauty
that wanders 'round in time
on tip-toed feet beyond the brush,
on weightless wings without a rush,
tucked away behind a thought
for when we're old enough to know
everything that we've been taught.