few new words, here.
just the punk scene-
feral, free.
and the accompanying
knowledge that
others battle the tide, too,
mouths as salty with sea water.
others
giving to become,
dancing in the trenches,
transported beyond classroom cubicles
by the music of
celestial fabrics,
of me,
of me meeting you,
of whispers from the lips of
God.
we all set up shop there,
use intermittent sunlight
to grow and sell our bluebells,
our quirky flower children.
we all capture
the poetry of moments,
all maroons
in cozy sanctuaries
rich
with the music of
intuition, of
loss of pride, and
old book smells.

How Much Time
do i need for me,
really?

i want to sleep nights on Central Park benches.
i want to buy a bookstore.
i want to feel a horse between my thighs.
i want to drape myself in Moroccan silks.

Simple Solutions,
i'd like you to meet
Bureaucratic Barricades.

is there real need
for the two sides
to every coin
buried in bank vaults
and sock drawers?

but vessels to be
filled.

i want to reform the public education system.
i want to become a nun.
i want to be in the darkness with you.
i want to see unicorns.

just being (t)here,
lost in idealism
and the lines on my palms.