Why do I live, why do I die?
Why do I live, why do I cry?
Here is the SOS of a man in distress:

I've never had both feet upon the ground.
I'd rather be a bird,
I don't fit into this skin.
I'd like to see the world turned upside down;
If ever it were beautiful -
It's lovelier from above, from above.

I've always confused life
with the comic strips,
Even wished I could transform.
I feel something -
That draws me
That draws me
That draws me up.
 
Into the great lotto of the universe,
I don't have the right numbers;
I don't fit into this skin.
I don't want to be a robot -
Eating, working, sleeping.
 
Why do I live, why do I die?
Why do I live, why do I cry?
I think I'm catching waves
From another world.

I've never had both feet upon the ground;
I'd rather be a bird.
I'd like to see the world turned upside down -
I'd rather be a bird.

Sleep, child, sleep.

To all of you poets
down South and up North
West and to the East
whoever you are
whatever your beliefs
I wish you much joy
happiness and peace
for on this one night
at least think no more
of spite, anger and war
sickness, sorrow or grief
for wherever you are
may kindness be the star
that lights all of our ways.

A stare
will become
a scar
if you don't watch it
like a hawk
and if you let it
loose darkness
will swoop
through the rafters
in the loft
while you lie there
letting night
swell into a wound
like the red moon
and your eyes
will fill with vines
of poison ivey
itching to be blind
and wishing
to pour the pain
away forevermore.

You know what I mean
that person who seems
to you in your dreams
a bit more than lust
but just shy of love
who can drive you mad
with only one glance
and I'm not talking about
getting into those pants
no, what I mean is
something beyond desire
more than a fire
but not quite the one
that would leave you broken
hearted and alone if she danced
with every man in the room
but, man, I sure do like the way
those butterflies in her *******
make me feel like a lepidopterist
rather than an archaeologist.

Love is a word
like a sword
that has worn
out its scabbard,
a lonely *******,
or a red rose
that opens alone,
a dream that lingers
for too many seasons
and passes in the shadows,
furrows in the dust
on a bannister,
a rock in the garden
of lust,
an empty place
at a table,
a ring on a cobweb
in the rain,
a long hair on your bed,
a nail in a blank wall.

Night, that old sinkhole
of the soul, climbs
the dark stairs of despair
who knows what the moon
is thinking behind that one-eyed
stare clawing his way through
the pines outside my window
carrying bootblack in a blanket
when it's colder for shining shoes
that go with my black suit
and the red rose on the pillow
I burn before the morning.

We can weep, oh America
the name of our country
over and over
our democracy looted
while the new President
is congratulated
and his acolytes kiss ***
like a ruby on the King's ring
the Secretary of Education
can't read and the Secretary
of Energy with his poor memory
drinks from a glass of big oil
while the Secretary of Interior
says there can be no more bees
no butterflies, no more gardens
for us inferiors, there will be
no more dreaming, no poets
or anti-discrimination policies
against anything, no brooms
for sweeping, just last straws
and executive actions handed
down from the white mansion.

Sometimes at night

asleep by the firelight

I dream about them

how they died

some are singing

and others saying what

they no longer see

walking fencelines

limping as if in pain

some of them handsome

and some mysterious

silent but not

for long they tell you

men scarcely know

how beautiful fire is

and old stories

they can't remember

unless you can

still look them in the eye.

My problem
isn't with the philo-
sophical side,
but lies more 
in the how
and the when and
the courage
required.