I'd rather stand valiantly, vigilantly, vehemently opposed
And leave myself exposed and abhorred by men as some sort of abomination
Among the nations of the wicked, the violent, the oppressing,
Those obsessing, resting rather than confessing,

Sitting on thrones of plush and velvet, comforts among one another,
Transgressing and pressing, stepping further into a heading of course,
A course plotted, addressing to the south,
Lower than any city, any suggestion, below pity and question,

Lord, forgive me, for I am stacked with bricks of hate, not wont to overcome evil with good,
And free from admission, sin's apparition, the unfortunate linger of lust, lies, respect to persons, and superstition,
Where my heart should be freedom from all sin, and my mind should be blades,
Cutting vain vines growing from the millstone seeds of silence cast.

I'd rather stand and have my face plagued and beaten,
Sandstone after sandstone from the deserts of accusation and trial,
Than sit and participate in the forced trepanation
Where some cadaver formerly called the mind sits, and God was removed.

I'd rather stand.
On the salvation of God, love, and unity,
I'd rather stand.

Put the words there.
Go ahead.
His is new,
His is not.

Put the words there,
Go ahead.
Hers is great and
Rich in Plot.

Plot...
Yes, Plot.

Put the words there,
Go ahead.
This is filled with vibrant character,
But his or mine is not.

And so and so is great and vivid,
But so and so is not.

And so and so was great at this and that
But so and so was not.

And so and so could write so well,
But so and so is forgot.

So and so is the only one
To write words, of course.
But so and so never should,
Because he writes like a lame horse.

So and so is marvelous and is born to be this right here
But so and so is not worthy to even come near.
This and this is childish,
And this and this is wrong,

And this and this should be in this paragraph,
The place where we say it belongs!

So and so should be this, that, alive or dead,
Where we say he belongs!

What is boredom but subjectivity,
Always viral conductivity
From one and two and here and there
A way of ratifying one's personal cares.

Likes, dislikes, attractions, distractions,
Formulative thoughts and rash reactions,
Bombardment of character and theatrical woes,
And no one can say from where it comes or goes.

A view from behind the pill of bitter estrangement,
Lenses and visions of complicated derangements,
Better or worse, one subjects his collusions
With the darker abstracts of critical confusion.

So what is boredom but a lack of reason,
A hiding place behind a suspension of disbelief,
What is boredom but a condition of pondering the lack of what's to ponder,
Construction of illness rather than intellectual relief?

I am thankful for another day of breath,
Another day to get up, stretch my arms, and grab a pen,
Jot down a thought, a mismatched feeling, a strange sensation,
Pluck a note or two on the guitar, hammer a chord on the piano,

Sketch a funky thing on a piece of paper,
Talk to my family, reach out to a stranger,
Add a gift of hope, listen to some sound the wind carries,
Love like the next move the clock makes will be to run me through.

I am thankful to run here, there, dream mad, crazy, absurd things,
Conjure childish, stupid goals, reach for them, and hopefully catch them,
And praise even as I grab palm fulls of empty air.
I praise God Almighty especially as I grab palms full of empty air.

I am thankful for the moments of sitting across from Russian girls and not understanding them,
Admiring their beauty as they talk, one singing Madonna, the other speaking quickly,
And I am thankful for the moments of making a fool of myself and stubbing my toes as I walked away.
I am thankful for the audiences played for so infinitely much, the cheers, the times I was and am admired,
And I am thankful for the times I have been scoffed at, the times I was and am afraid.


I am thankful to God, dearly and bountifully, Lord knows, for everything and all things.
Things I don't deserve, things I shouldn't see or have, but things I cherish,
And things that I know are divine,
And in heaven, I owe God all things, but I want to have a hug.

From my Father in heaven, I want most of all, a hug.

I understand what it is.
I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
I know what it is.
I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

Tear him down.
The eyes that ramble away from him say, "freak."
Into some new direction, some better pair of eyes,
Much more appealing.

I understand what it is,
And I would never wish it upon my worst enemy.

He says, "Hello," to a stranger,
And she wants him to find something better to do.
Something more appropriate for his "kind."
He turns away, whispering a prayer of hope, waiting.

I understand what it is,
And I would never wish it upon my worst enemy.

Would you want to be ignored?
Would you want to be snubbed?
Would you want to be told someone more like you should take care of you?
Find your "kind."

Find your land, where all of "you" live.
Wherever that is.

I know exactly what it is,
And I would never wish it upon my worst enemy.

And now, I know what I never want to do, and hate if I have done.

Poetic justice, I suppose.
She imposed a thought within me, a repetition,
A groove upon which this melody plays,
A soft saxophone timbre eskimo kissing with the cochlea lashes.

Every face passing in alleys and sidewalks is a puzzle box shifting,
Incoherent until its cubes turn into her face again.
The city within me says she is anew, and this cube does not shift to the same old solution,
But the earth in my soul sprouts vines beneath its bustling feet, and the vines twist into her visage.

My words are phantoms, and I speak them to the newest beautiful stranger,
Each stranger more beautiful than the last, more comforting and satisfying,
But the nucleus of those scattered electrons, those uncertain ghosts finished by a period,
Is the tattoo upon my recollection, my favorite neon puzzle box.

I wait in the ambiguous, discomforting silence for a day she will be solved.

Wisdom, my wife, my beauty,
How long you have kissed me, left me, returned, and drawn my tears.
Wisdom, she sits caressing my face, crying also as she pulls my hair into a fist with the other hand,
Tells me we are married, then tells me in the same breath we were never to be.

Her enemies, Tongue and Pen, have called her names and torn her tenderness.
And I have cried after kissing their fair, lying lips, loving what does not love at all.
Wisdom, it pains me to watch you suffer at my hands repetitiously.
My love, my beauty, killed daily in spoken word and abrupt action.

She whispers as I hold her in my arms, breathing her death rattle,
"You have met love and know it not at all."
I weep and whisper in her right ear,
"I left her coldly for the mistress Judgment."

I lay her into an empty tomb but do not seal it,
Waiting for her to arise again,
Calling to those who met my pen,
"Forgive, and let her arise again."