you slept on the inside of the bed
I on the outside
you were cooler
I was calmer
and we talked of everything
but of course - mostly - nothing
you left early in the morning
I slept while you readied

you eskimo kissed my nose
to say you were leaving
and leaving me there
and before my smile reached both ears
you reached the door and were gone
but still there in my head
heading toward my heart

Funny how we woke up in the morning
and pretended that tomorrow never happened—
strutted naked in mirrors celebrating our youth,
laughing, knowing suns and moons couldn’t do the same.

We borrowed our arms from the fridge
and peddled bicycles with bad breath—
trading war stories ‘cause we knew
if we came back alive
life would still be the death of us.

River parts it through the middle
Valley-town,
no spark you kindle

Mirror-faces, motionless
spying minds under tolerance-dress

Of the bridges,
I count three
cross the bridge,
but they can't see

Category,discipline,
bend and break - to fit in,

this is Mirror-Tyranny.

Sing-song people flock like sheep,
conformity-vows you must keep,

You Valley-town, you Valley-people.

I put a mirror to your face,
perhaps you'll see this is the case;

Climb the hill and have a peek,
there's more of us,
who do not speak,
the Mirror-Tongue of 'I-means-we',
You Valley-people are not free.

Oh beer-brewing town,
grey and timely,
beer-foam people sting us kindly,

Unity-violence leaves no scar,
but we know what,
you really are.

Blessed oil-children
your wealth is new,
years of culture, you have but few.

Divided and numbered,
1-2-3,
disciplined apathy,
mimics Civility.

Watch us close, expect a hit,
but battle-sparks among you are lit
Bah-bah sheep, and cows that moo,
look around - the wolf's one of you.


He's the third, waiting are more,
writing manifests of calls to War.

Valley-people, asking how,
numbing rythm has to bow,
Hillside people are watching You now.

Hold your roses high for your Father,
but Valley-people,
perhaps now you see?
You are not so kind, so pure, so free.

Never, never again?
Not on nights filled with quivering stars,
or during dawn's maiden brightness
or afternoons of sacrifice?

Or at the edge of a pale path
that encircles the farmlands,
or upon the rim of a trembling fountain,
whitened by a shimmering moon?

Or beneath the forest's
luxuriant, raveled tresses
where, calling his name,
I was overtaken by the night?
Not in the grotto that returns
the echo of my cry?

Oh no. To see him again --
it would not matter where --
in heaven's deadwater
or inside the boiling vortex,
under serene moons or in bloodless fright!

To be with him...
every springtime and winter,
united in one anguished knot
around his ****** neck!