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 **** 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 ****, 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.