The doe ran across the road and I had to catch my startled breaths.
The doe ran across the road and a car swerved, successfully.
The doe ran and looked at my face for fifteen seconds (or more...or less).
The doe ran across the road and jumped so high and landed amongst a small bunch of trees.
The doe outran me. I was on my bicycle that day.
The doe ran five miles per hour. Every hour.
The doe ran while I climbed wooden staircases.
The doe ran after she acknowledged my presence, and I acknowledged hers.
The doe ran because she was afraid I would hurt her  (why would I hurt her? for food).
The doe ran away afraid and I was secretly afraid--don’t mention this to my Nature friends--that the doe did not hurt me.
The doe ran away from the other does because of overpopulation.
The doe ran. I want to run with the doe, or on the doe.
The doe ran across the road a lot every day.

Singing as spirituality,
people would feel free, free,
people would feel...
light, funny, not embarrassed,
not embarrassed to ****,
companionship. NO TELEVISION.
More land, communal, raising children in groups,
healthy food, everyone feels empowered to share,
constant sharing, trading, collective owning.
Trees.
Naked, warm, outside living, living mostly outside.
Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom like Richie Havens said.
Learning and putting that knowledge into practice.
Everyone's opinions would be heard and would be legitimate because they are humans.
Intentionality. Dancing, intentionally.
Living in a tent, intentionally.
Singing: everybody's singing all the time.
Humming, whistling, body hair (or not depending on your preference)
But most likely a lot a of body hair.

It is worse for a tulip to live again and be renewed
than for the tulip to die and be dead.
“What happens when you die?”
I asked several romantic partners over the course of my adolescence.
“You’re dead,” they answered.

It is worse for the tulip to be born again,
dust to dust, dirt to dirt, true god from true god,
in a process that spiritual peers define as, reincarnation.
No tulip is an individual (that is clear), but a process.
A perfecting oneness.

I can’t admit or bend to any resounding belief that every tulip is the same.
That FernGully was a farce and Pocahontas, a phony.
That is just not going to fly.
Maybe it is the environmentalist inside me speaking,
or maybe it is God.

I refuse to believe the prodigies and professors of renewal and rejuvenation.
I can not discount individuation, even in tulips!
Tulips are victims of suburbia, they have been relegated to the lawn, to the mulch bed,
but inside of them there are remnants of humanity.

I couldn’t believe it, ever.
Not ever, even if you convinced me or bribed me or seduced me.
No chance.

Shampoo your carcass.
Lean it against a tree, like a scare-crow in your garden.
You smell very greasy and downright delicious.
It’s impossible to imagine how greasy you smell,
unless you’ve worked in the fast food industry.

Scramble up some soupy eggs for us,
we’re hungry, all of us, all the time.
Your emaciated and good at it, too.
You’re talking on the phone to no one in particular.
You hang up, “bye.”

Don’t tell me when to wake up.
Talk to me instead about hormones,
and poke fun at human anatomy.
Talk about how manic you are, and I’ll agree,
I’ll say, “me too.”

Flash freeze all your groceries.
Cancel your subscriptions, lock the fire-door
and wonder why you don’t like dogs.
Try to think of something to say to someone,
something nice.

I sense compliance when I am reading.
I just like characters.
I let the characters do what they would do and I don’t ask any questions.
I laugh out loud, a lot, at some of the things they do, but I don’t normally get frustrated.
I feel my stomach churn nervously with each new installment.
I’m physically stressed out by the genius.
When I look up and stare at the room, no one is looking at me.
No one cares, and if they saw me, they’d think I was nuts.  
Or at least a quarter loony.  
The background noise of my rapid epiphanies is a woman asking about a continental breakfast.
My stomach is acting up so much.
I just feel nervous a lot.  
All I can do at this point is stare at the beautiful lack of color,
of a rain-washed, dim, quarter to five evening.

The ink pen brings out the remembrances.
Breathing in through my left nostril
and breathing out through my right nostril
in a chapel, laying on the carpet.  
This weariness, looking at a stark naked, loud tree.
So many words potentially rushing to the floodgates,
pursuing the exit, the fire exit, the iron staircase,
window escape, chimney scaling and freed.
Instead, words smash up and block the entrance way
with their attitudes of arrogance
or their inexplicable self consciousness.

Words are canned soup and my can opener got broke on the second day of school so does anyone have one I can borrow or use?

Happiness piques interest.
When happiness peaks it is
always nervous,
treading blindly,
violently
joyfully spinning and shaking my hair.
Liquids pouring in and out,
steadily.

Ripping, interdependent happiness
worse and better than solo sadness,
calling out or whispering,
strategically,
Admit that I exist. Admit that I existed!

Heaven is anticipation.
The edge of coming--always.
Heaven is walking out and into the clearing,
about to dance, the most primal dance.
About to eat, the most satisfying meal.

Culmination, the foreplay before death, is life.
Mortality arouses me,
viciously.
It blinds me, then allows me to see.
Pulls the covers on top of me.
Alive and gyrating on air
with isolation or autonomy,
happiness is coming all over me.