i shall love you
that you have been
after my own heart
as the tatse of the sea:

easy and deep beyond words;

laughing in shoals and
turgid in memory.

you are light
and beyond most things
you are the smooth
incomparable
disaster of 23 years
of screaming girlness.

you are my own,
and my flesh–
you make me.

Oh, how the caged bird sings...
From the nest made of  fallen earrings, flattened rings, and tangled wiring.
Is there a difference between a cage and a nest?
Is a home a shelter or a prison?
I guess it just depends on who has access to the door.

Are you tired of boxes or tired of moving?
My nomadic experience provides definition to previous gleanings.
Death Row is still living, while Hobo Bo yearns for the meaning.
Feed the dog first and then get your filling.
Expanding your consciousness, but how far are you willing?
Your pupils can only expand so much before your eyes are nothing but black holes with no floors or ceilings.

How old is this feeling?
Your camera lens will fracture if you don't stop twisting.
Pretty soon you won't be able to view anything.  
Your tree houses how many rings?
Did you really free yourself or is the cage just disappearing?
How close can you get to flying without batting your wings?
How close to the sun can you fly be before frying? What good does that bring? Let freedom ring.

So sing, little bird, sing your song of searing madness.
Whether I'm shackled to this perch or flying in circles out in a clearing,
As long as I'm listening to these same sweet melodies there is nothing to be fearing,
For I'm listening to the most beautiful song that I can ever remember hearing.
A bird lives a simple life, and in the end that is what is most endearing.
Sing freedom, sing.

standing alone
in the deep valley
i am carpeted by the dust
   of bygone days

memories float past me
   dissipating before my eyes
as my hands grasp vainly
   desperately trying to hold on
to just one small granule
   of an almost forgotten
past.

"Oh to be free as that bird!"
He cried from between the wrought iron bars
"To sing as she sings,
To be the wind beneath wings,
To be able to watch from afar;
Would be a dream."
Or so it seemed

One day an officer came along
And told the man he could run free
He thought he was dreaming
Sat still for a while
For a while not believing
And stifling a smile
As he looked up and questioned "Who? Me?"

There was wind in his hair
As he flew out the doors
And found himself, quite some time after
Sat on a bench with his head in his hands
Lost in his own hopeful laughter