Let's
get up earlier
witness more mornings like these
before breakfast

collect as many symphonies in our hearts
as we can, be like the sun
touching surfaces

lets catch glimpses of tiny fat birds
sunbathing on high wires,
be like cars sheathed
in crusted ice,
waiting to be born into tones
of different colors
by the warmth of the coming day

let's awaken to the crunch
of a silent frost of a morning

and sing.

Tumbling-hair
              picker of buttercups
                                   violets
dandelions
And the big bullying daisies
                             through the field wonderful
with eyes a little sorry
Another comes
              also picking flowers

They say knowledge is power yet I feel weak.
When strength is in numbers and no one knows,
then how shall the earth go to the meek?

Power is the knowledge that people will agree
when no other option is addressed
and the media controls what we see.

The tele-images flash black and blue
beating our minds to a ****** pulp
and delivering news that’s untrue.

Television tells us lies
Through reporter spies
who invade our lives.

And only the truly informed will fight
for the rights of the freethinking brain
so the rest can sleep well at night.

We believe the clockwork illusions
drawing miserable conclusions.
Yet no one stops to decipher these cerebral intrusions
or question these mass delusions.

What, now, does our youth stand for?
What is it that makes us tick?
What kind of truth do we bring forth?

We have bludgeoned the idea of originality,
We've killed individuality, embraced naivete
and wasted opportunity.

So where shall we end up?
When will we stand up?

Our generation will shape the next,
yet we, ourselves, are misshapen.
When communication is reduced to text,
when will our youth awaken?

* This is Generation X

you play me like
a 1963 Gibson f-hole guitar, mint condition:

you know exactly where to hold and press and play
moving your fingers with such talent it takes my breath away.

so tune me to your heart’s desire,
because I like it best when you’re pulling the strings

Jake was a pussyhound in a city of *****.
"Hey man, can I ask for some advice"
--a common conversation-starter device;
I riddled his brain with disdain,
he armored up--
the ignorance card draining from his sleeve.
He once taught me a lesson greedily kept celestial.
Purely accidental--
lost in the beginnings of spring,
he strolled into my daydream,
sharpened his fingertips on my shoulder blades,
my heart struggled to beat under my mind's premonition--
"I ****** Susie, Sally, and Sam. Satan's summer in a bedroom--
needless to say, I was enthralled."

As the landscape of their bodies took shape
in my shuddering skull, the cancer took.
Details--details, more details, pretty please,
conquest, conquest, more, more,
gimme more.

The sky is not crying, neither is it blessing you
The trees do not dance, neither do they feed you
God does not curse you, neither is He watching you
The predator salivating death doesn't know its prey
We want to connect everything to us, humanize the unfeeling
We name the stars, the children, the earth
It doesn't matter, because they will always be what they always were
The storm comes, regardless of what we call it
We perish, regardless of whether we praised life
We live, regardless of whether we worshipped death
This is why we are crumbling, if and only we remember to stay unnamed
If we unmask our humanity, underneath is nature, waiting
Underneath is where all we know is existing

"As long as there is room for error,"
she said,
"I am content."
her hair was that of a shih tzu,
her eyes were those of a raccoon.
when she felt something deeply, she couldn't eat.

she whispered about the color orange(turned a sickly green)
and enjoyed the repetition of vowel sounds.
one spell away from invisibility—
like shutting your eyes when the world is spinning too quickly—
and three snaps from sanity.
she held my hand before I knew her heart,
her fingers were a birds nest
but mine were chocolate and
melting fast.
"I'm feeling another person,"
she said.
"It is from my soul, and it is giving me cancer."

before dawn she got up and stretched her limbs
until they were elastic,
(longer than sausage links)
and almost reached the moon.
I was never afraid of the marks her teeth left on my furniture;
still,
it was coming out of her pocket.
her eyes were those of my dead husband
(I was almost sure she'd dug them from his very skull),
and she looked from side to side
until they rolled back in their sockets,
demonic
sensual
fiery.

"Dying is something I did in my past life,"
she told me.
"I won't be making the same mistake in this one."