running your fingers through my hair
it is falling out in clumps
I'm actually surprised it's stayed this long
but I will be a naked mole rat soon

I left the door ajar tonight, and
despite the spirits of the darkness
swirls of sunshine pour into my open sores

there's a howl in the darkness
and my muscles are twisting like trees

I'm barking mad, lemme tell ya

they took me for a ride
and I had no idea where I was

there's a coyote on my porch
sniffing around for scraps

it seems the fool is knocking on my door

explode into raven and
I am flying backwards
in a plume of feathers

smoke billows from charred fields
sunflowers grew here once

they were thick enough to hide inside

God, I miss them.

Does my very existence not fit into your narrow idea of what a human being should be?

That you even hold a belief that my identity should have parameters truly disconcerts me.

First, I feel a reactionary urge to be sorry for not fitting into this tiny little cardboard box you've made for me.

This box you want to close up and push to the back of a dusty shelf.

This is because I'm used to being swept under the rug like a mess you don't want to see but you don't have the time for.

Then, I want to crush it beneath my feet and tear it apart.

But the mother within me caresses your hateful glare with a sorry stare.

Disappointed... worried, I gently pick it up.

With a sad smile, I begin to open it.

Carefully, with the calloused pads of my fingers, I untuck each fold you have created in order for this box to contain my soul.

With each motion, I make sure not to rip it at the seams. That would hurt.

It seems, though, this material has been handled unlovingly to begin with.

Mold has made its way into the corners, and the fibers are fraying at each corner, at every fold.

But I am patient. I will slowly but surely deconstruct each and every hateful box that has been stacked in the musty warehouse of your heart.

I will be here until all unsuspecting souls have escaped their prisons.

I will be here until I die.
But that's okay.

It gives me something to do with my hands.
Plus I enjoy the company of the liberated.

I need their help to clean this place up.

Fluorescent
drib drab
cut out flip
flop flip flop
Think 'til ya can't stop but
it's just too bright in here
It's just look around look around
from inside those tinted windows

Those glasses framed
with and without conformity
Because who needs the every day cut and dry fantasy of the just gotta get by to get by

Get high and stay low
fly south to stay warm
spinning wheels squeek and
pinch squinch ear drum skins like a
fire that's too hot for
the hide and
snap!

Take it back to your earliest childhood memory and smell the flowers in the backyard.

It sounds a little like drizzle drizzle water from the fluffy fluffy clouds but -
Don't you ignore me, you little punk!
Move along, move along, get in the car
And drive -

We're gone and never coming back
Step forward step forward n' step back -

Look around, listen...
See if you can hear the trees glisten
Listen for the motion of the ocean and

You've been here before
but it's much different
because you've stepped forward
and stepped forward before so be forward

Be a becoming
Become and
come back to Me
come back to where it all starts

More words or less words
Either forward or just lack the words
Even with none, the essence is in your eyes

It's in the tingling
of the muscles in your smile

as you speak and as you don't

It's in the electric branches that crackle up through the soles of your feet when you stand still in happy soil
happy soil

The present moment
is a medium for us to mold.
Make it meaningful, make it absurd.
Either way, mindless molding gets old.
Be present and listen, love
in order to be heard.

I guess I'll just have to open my heart wider than my pretty little mouth.

Too bad it's been stitched shut with the linings of your actions.

Gonna have to
pop pop rip it
at the seams
it seems.

Frayed flesh
frayed flesh pray
to Ganesha Ganesh.

Bleed freely
cut it loose and
let it flow like a river.

Remover of stitches and rain fixed ditches collapsing in on themselves like a star folding itself up and hiding in a drawer.

Dust bunnies get bigger the longer they can stay unseen.

I like to collect particles of past lives and the stories of fallen strands of hair.

Along the lines of wispy waves come fine chimes of timely bells bellowing only perceived truth but truth nonetheless.

Tear it apart like you would the last letter a lover wrote you.

Let the pieces fuel a fire to keep you warm and bright.