Home of afternoon coppered timberland
Dancing wire grass and shimmering tin
Egrets in the house of deep blue sunsets
Dove songs riding winter winds* ...

It's our time
The sublime
Rhyme and reason
We season this reality with words instead of thyme:
Both are medicinal
Antiseptic chemicals to keep away the grime

                   *Don't tell me any different

                Bare witness to the gift of bliss that is *expression
                       Words can increase life expectancy in the midst of depression
             They can get back at those who hurt you without using a weapon
            Or refresh your mental image when you're feeling less than

They form legacies and dedications
Eulogies and congratulations
They give everything in existence an identity
Even the most ****** obscenities

Words are life and words are love
Words even form this silly cheesy stuff

       **To everyone feeling poetic, I have but one question
      What's one way, while writing, your life has been blessed in?

Nestled closely to my dreams
  I build castles in air
Dancing on tops of clouds
  with my tiny feet bare
I carry on in a way of grace
  singing songs with rapture
Hands twirling in the sky
  rose petals I swiftly capture
I kiss each one
  blowing them back to the wind
My soul is too selfless
  to have harbored all of them
In the distance his eyes met mine
  with a gentle smile
My cheeks turning to a cranberry wine
  as he took my hand a while
Floating deep into the rising sun
  warm colors melt our souls
Poured into the open sea
  spiraling round and round on carousel
Until washed upon twinkling sands
  of greens and yellows
I awaken with empty hands
  and a heart that bellows.

in love with
linoleum pressing into the side of my face
the familiarity
lapsing reminders
to sleep
eat to
give into ritualistic habits of
living

exchanged the need
desire
with the pulsing sensations
of a beating heart
drying salivary glands  

is this existence
once your brain cells have all lined up
two decades in
the never ending string
pulling through your throat
repeating the same
anxious anecdotes
of

no one could possibly
relate to this
narrowing pit
that we're not going to
make it out of this alive
no one ever has

.

Throw him scraps from the table.
Feed him tiny morsels off the lean.
Offer him last dregs from the barrel.

He’ll take anything you’d part with...
For his eyes are blindfolded,
and his mouth sewn shut.

He sees yet he doesn’t know.
He fights but he does not say.

He can only piece together so much
from mere dribs and drabs.

So toss this crow some loose change...
Clothe this jackal in complete rags,
And hand this vulture his just desserts.

He’ll swallow whatever you’re willing give him...



Because he can no longer bear
being left in the dark.