I believe in predestination like a hard cover
book lying open underneath a ceiling fan. I believe
in imagination unfettered like the wheels
of a bike kicking up rain. I believe in tasting
everything like the teething puppy chewing
all the furniture. I believe in arrangements
like the photographer with no camera. I believe
in impetus like the dry clump of dirt that erupts
into fine powder because of a little tension
in between your fingers. I believe in relevance
like the poetry addict who wants to ask Emily
Dickinson where she got her cardigan. I believe
in economy like Curiosity who found her way
home by following the trail of cat crumbs she left earlier.
I believe in complacency like the larkspur
in love with a promiscuous hummingbird.
I believe in delusion like  the saxophone player
who can’t distinguish Carnegie Hall
from the subway station.

Your hands were cold on my back,
And they soothed my scalding, sweaty skin.
You shivered in your cocoon of sheets,
And I warmed you with my knees and hips.

I am the cold one, always the cold one.
Who’s toe’s are blue and bitten,
Who’s hands send chills and cause frosty withdrawal.
I am the silent one in need of warming and careful heat,
Always the cold one. The blue one.

But your hands are cold on my back,
and under the front of my shirt.  Freezing hands.
You steal my heat, greedy as I am to give.
I give you everything thing i have.

Now you are the blue man
and I am burning.

The shyest prize
who sings, but lies,
climatically waves
as she bats her eyes.

With her head held high
the sun can shine,
yet within her dismissal
she'll finally hide.

On display, in such-
a courageous way.
She pretends to be
the smile she fakes.

Inadequate- she'll say.
Trembling with fear
you cannot read
on her face.

The shyest prize,
she sings, yet lies,
falsifies the fear,
and pain in her eyes.

Serene- complete.
She only ventures- to be.
Plays this role
nobody can see.

In this world
we walk on the roof of hell,
gazing at flowers.

Its funny how the past reminds us of what’s to come.
And its strange how one look into her eyes and the feelings that plagued my bones come rushing back.
The same feelings I drained bottle after bottle to escape, pleading with fate to look the other way as I refused to enter the door it moved heaven and earth to open.
All the time spent in silent pursuit comes flooding back.
The hours when sleep abandoned me for fear I’d go on dreaming.
For a moment, just a moment, I close my eyes, and I remembered what it felt like to make you laugh.
Followed closely by that sinking feeling, the one that fooled me into believing we were meant to be.
In that moment I realised time hadn’t healed anything; it only led me to believe I’d left well enough alone.
Beneath the defence of “I’ve moved on” lay a boy still frightened at the thought of trusting his heart.
Just know it’s not that I never love you my dear; it was I was too scared, Too scared to tell you how I felt and just how much I cared.

John was a wonderful painter.
He would paint apples and people and dogs.
And he was happy.
Then he fell in love with an artist
And he was happy.
Then she broke his heart.
Now, he can no longer paint.

No, you're wrong.

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

Particularly at lunch
in a laughing restaurant

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

And they are moved
by their own beauty

And they shed tears for it
in the back of the taxi home

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.