We exist
As a reflection of the creative force
That drives the universe.
It imbues our cells,
Our molecules,
Our spirits.

As children, we did not hesitate
To pretend,
To imagine,
To make up songs and stories,
To paint and draw,
To dance and sing -

Another joyful voice in the choir of the universe.

So tell me why
Do you hesitate now?
Why do you hide behind self made limitations and fears -
Excuses that become the walls of your cage,
Your prison cell -
Your tomb.

Why do you say
that you are not one of THEM -
The gifted, the talented, the artistic -
(As if we were not all made from the same stardust)
Repeating it over and over like a mantra-
that could absolve you of your responsibilities,
Your role,
Your unique harmony in the song of creation.
Oh, what arrogance!
What hubris!

A line in the sand -
a border -
a fence -
my 40th birthday;
my 50th birthday;
my 60th birthday -
the ball drops at midnight!
A new year -
blow horns, beat drums,
kiss somebody, make resolutions.

but everything on that side
looks exactly
like everything on this side.

and somewhere
rivers are carving canyons
and small plants
are shattering boulders

Thoughts, ideas and words
Have always been corporeal objects in my life -
Things, with weight and volume.
If you could see them, stacked precariously one atop another
Pile after pile and stack after stack,
threatening to bury me alive, when the balance is destroyed someday
when I try to remove the wrong item at the wrong time -
Well, If you saw them like that -
The way I see them –
You would, no doubt call me a hoarder,
A hoarder of ideas, thoughts and words,
Living safely in my own little world  
Surrounded by the waste products
Of an over active mind,
Unwilling to part with even the most useless thought -
Secure that someday they will all fit together into in a grand poem
That will free me at last.

The walls of my sleep have been deteriorating,
crumbling

So full of holes,
that my dreams have escaped their dark cages
to prowl the world in the greenblue day.

Outside my windshield
Morpheus transforms the landscape -

sculpting traffic, trees and sky
Into mythic tableaus
of seductive beauty - hypnotic grace.

and then I am also transformed -

Into a bullet

For an eternal moment
I become a speeding messenger of death,

until the alarm of the traffic
breaks the spell
and the dreams scurry away,

to hide once more
from the waking world

and wait.

Being disorganized and somewhat distracted
I seem to have misplaced the map that the universe provided at my birth.
You know the one:
it shows your perfect path through this lifetime-
so you can be at exactly the right place at exactly the right time
and use the talents and intelligences that the universe let you borrow
to achieve great and wonderful things.

It would be so nice to know that I was on the right path,
instead of guessing and hoping and straining to hear the angels
that I imagine are hoarse and frustrated from screaming:
Not that way!! The other way!!
or
Where the hell are you going?

I wonder does she know
that they live with us -
all my other selves -
over on the stairway is the me that went totally insane
five years ago during the great stress
while I had to keep it together for my family.
He is looking quite relaxed today.
On the sofa is the me that quit his job
to write poetry and become involved in the theater.
( I am surprised he is here - he should be in New York)
Over there is the me that told everyone to *******
and leave me alone.
On the second floor, looking out the bedroom window,
is the me that actually went to find
my birth father and tell him he was a **** for leaving my mother and me.
He is chatting with the me that sent his manuscript out to more than three agents before giving up.
The me that has worked out diligently for the last 30 years, playing football and basketball and soccer is over - no I’m making him up. He doesn’t exist.
They crowd every inch of every room
and more than a few hang from the ceiling
and now all her other selves are moving in as well.

I suppose that’s married life for you.

Jack, they say, one autumn day did fool the devil well;
And then and there, did make him swear, to keep Jack out of hell.
But when he died, he was denied his entrance into glory;
And so he roams our streets at night and therein lies the story.
To see at night, he has a light that comes from hells own flame-
Which burns so well in a turnip shell –and jack-o-lantern is its name.