Two lefts don’t make a right.
But I make use of this.
I want to make the left left choice,
Find the left left word.
Because this left left word
Is the opposite of the “right” word.
It does in the opposite direction,
Forges its own stream.
And this is the left left choice.
This is my way.

The glossy raven-crow perches on the wire,
Its carefully-preened wings glistening
With perfect drops of moisture.
It surveys its domain with coal-black eyes—
Coal-black, but not void, not empty—
Black with all the absorbed knowledge,
The deep black of knowing too much,
The tacit black of the extraterrestrial skies.
The raven-crow omits a sound into the air,
Silent to some, but volumes to others.
The raven-crow spoke directly to the air,
And the air understood the message.
The two share the deeply-seated secret,
So it’s not as much a burden as before.
The sun falls into the embrace
Of the curvature of the Earth.
The raven-crow, having received its cue,
***** its obsidian wings once more,
Sending crystal tears to shatter midflight.

The whispers in the corners of the classroom
Rise up like the quiet hissing of serpents,
Swirling around in verisimilitudinous eddies,
Less quiet, less quiet, less quiet, less quiet,
Whispers becoming cacophonous.
The silence screams for quiet;
The silence screams for itself.
But it clings to the forgotten corners of the classroom.

Swirling around in a cloud of chaos,
Of cacophony and disillusionment,
The person floats aimlessly in deep space.
Atom after atom rips itself away
And goes spinning off into the UnKnown.
Dust created, so return to dust.
The person flings arms wide, wide,
To encompass all of the cosmos,
Revel in that which is complex beauty,
Be at peace with Knowing but Not.
And the face begins to swirl
As the dust environment does
And so the person is physically unKown,
Known by personality only,
For the universe has reclaimed the mask.
The arms slowly begin to fade
Just as the face crumbles in finality;
More and more atoms flee
To rejoice in their newfound freedom
Until at last the heart swirls to dust,
Unleashing the long-imprisoned soul
To fly, unbridled, around the world—
Beyond the world—beyond, yes,
Even the farfetched, unrealized dreams.
Flying, swirling, one with All,
Bound by no chains, child of love.

In the deep shade cast by a towering mountain
Lies a monstrous warehouse. And inside this warehouse
Is column after column after row after row after row
Of shelves, shelves, shelves, more shelves,
Fading off into the gloom of the farthest corners.
And on each of these shelves sit dolls—
Hundreds, thousands, millions—billions?
And each of these dolls is defected.
The reason for the defect is branded across the forehead,
Melted plastic forming the biting words:
Pathetic.
Weak.
Prideful.
Snappy.
Self-centered.
Egotisti­c.
Stupid.
Ignorant.
Useless.
And on and on and on these dolls sit,
Shelf after shelf, row after row, column after column.
The dolls gradually age—slowly, almost unnoticeably.
But they age. Each is an “improvement”
Of the one next to her.
The newer model would get though a bit more,
Last just a bit longer, but still fail at some point.
And so the brander draws near, and brands the skin,
Melting plastic to drip softly down as tears.
But the doll can’t cry.
She’s already been shut down and awaits
The day the space next to her will be filled.

Can you hear it?
Do the strains of Earth
Reach to Heaven above?
I think you can hear it.
I want you to hear it.
I want you to hear it,
These notes entering my ears.
They remind me of you.
Can you hear it?
I’m sure you can.
You have to.
Please hear these songs.
Hear the floating,
Dancing, twirling notes
Of both joy and sorrow—
Hear the bittersweet
Tears rolling down my cheeks—
Hear them,
And remember me.

It's a delicate dance that writers perform.
We bow to our insanity and take hold of its hand.
One, two, three; one, two three; one, two, three.
Our feet spin on the fragile glass floor
That is called "proper society" by the masses.
Our coattails or skirts fly out as we dance,
Whipping through the air like our hands do
When we write or scribble or type.
One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.
The tempo changes, the dance is changed.
Still we dance the time away with our partner.
The lighting changes with our mood—
Broadest daylight to deepest night.
Each writer has a preferred time.
One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.
Sometimes we glimpse another's partner,
Bump into them by "accident."
And then our own partner changes,
Taking on just a hint of the other's partner.
And we glide along the dance floor,
Our hearts beating out the rhythms of life,
Our heels clicking out our words,
Our partners forming the stories we write.