Won't you lend your lungs to me
Mine are collapsing
Plant my feet and bitterly breathe
Up the time that's passing
Breath I'll take and breath I'll give
Pray the day's not poison
Stand among the ones that live
In lonely indecision


Fingers walk the darkness down
Mind is on the midnight
Gather up the gold you've found
You fool it's only moonlight
And if you stop to take it home
Your hands will turn to butter
Better leave this dream alone
Try to find another


Salvation sat and crossed herself
And called the devil partner
Wisdom burned upon a shelf
Who'll **** the raging cancer
Seal the river at it's mouth
Take the water prisoner
Fill the sky with screams and cries
Bathe in fiery answers


Jesus was an only son
And love his only concept
Strangers cry in foreign tongues
And ***** up the doorstep
And I for one and you for two
Ain't got the time for outside
Keep your injured looks to you
We'll tell the world that we tried

Packages are beautiful,
resplendent in their colors
bright and cheerful,
attractive in their shape
and tempting in
appearance, wrapped
in ribbons richly hued
with curlicues and bows

We love to carry them
about, showing everyone
how fortunate we are
to have such gifts
in our possession,
letting everyone join
our wonder about
what may be
in there

But I prefer a plain
brown wrapper
bearing no disguise,
or better yet the
contents revealed
to my eyes

To me, it's not the
package that's important,
it's what's inside

Let go the ashes
of the forest's searing fall
and find the seedling
rising up to drink the rain

Lift your lashes
from acid rivers flowing
and gaze upon the mirrored pool
capturing the morning sky

Unleash the torment
locked away inside and fill
the empty space with voices
singing chorus to your dreams

Wash away the blood
from bruised and battered limbs
and let the sun find you
basking in its rays

A pebble
can take down
a Goliath

A rebel
can dethrone
a King

A willing mind
can conquer
Anything

Santayana said,
"Those who cannot
remember the past
are condemned
to repeat it"

but did not mention
that today
is tomorrow's past

There are secrets in the wind
that runs its fingers
through your hair
tossing about a wild ballet
of unruly ripples and waves

It lifts homemade kites
from calloused hands
toward heaven, in leaps and loops
and crazy twirls that swoop the ground,
whispering to the grass
and shouting at the roaring sea

It caresses a warm breeze
in the cool twilight
of a lazy summer's eve
and unleashes fury
in chaotic rage
across the alleys
of midwestern plains

The wind listens
to the first cry of newborn babes
and carries away
the last breath of vanquished men

It fills the sky with unbound wonder
and settles in the leaves of ancient trees
that rock and sway to the rhythm
of its secret splendor

It was a day like this,
in March; smiling blue sky,
cheering wind, chill and brisk

A day like this, on the Charles

It was a good day
for sailing, hiking out
side by side, racing upwind
‘til feathers by the bridge
rocked us like babes,
laughing verses of Rimbaud
lamenting Milton
and the Arch-Fiend

We sailed circles round the eights
sculling their way to Henley;
we called them slaves
and gestured like Merry Pranksters

We tacked and jibed, glided downwind,
and on a broad reach, we saw Prufrock
standing on shore, downcast,
as mermaids slipped on board
and sang with us:

A verse for Nausicaa
A chorus for Eidolon