If you don't fit this world; if you despise its lies.
Craft boldly a new one with your own hands.

Stretch out your arms to weave new skies.
Braid her bright starry bands as you require.

Grab realities strings and pull them wide.
Direct the heaven's choir.

Sand and soil slip from your fingers with pride.
You speak "let there be" and manifest is your desire.

Lay hold that ancient serpent's hide.
Take up that ancient fire.

Then you Creation's Queen must decide
whose values are higher.

Anu and Apsu do not hide
for you've torn down their pyre.

Mark a new salt, sweet divide.
Build a land where foul things do not transpire.

Cut out the heart where this world's greed abides.
In your molding and making leave out the priests and bankers and all those who do conspire.

Be thou my Apocalypse and I'll rise from the dead.
Abolish now the hateful voices in my head.

Could you make a world where love is pure and free?
Fill it up with hurting souls such as you and me?

Oh, if my words were comets I could hurl them into the sea
and from my sweet apocalypse a bright new world would be.

I should not be allowed outside
driving down Lakeshore Drive.
I should be in a hospital room.
Padded.
Soft.

It feels like my personality could fly apart.
What happens when you lose your inner voice;
when there is no light or inner glow?

I think of all the different snapshots people get of me.
So different in different in spaces.
I pull the collage together and
who is this chimerical man?
Who could know him or understand?

Erase all the photos and what is left?
Who is there when there is no self?
What is a self not recognized?

Memories are written

In ink that never dries.

We recraft and remold them

To help us all get by.

Some of the things that you remember

Are just a bunch of lies.

Sometimes I start a poem

But then my interest dies.

I think, "what's the point"

If the truth has been excised?

Hearken here, my children dear.
I'll tell you true a tale.

A tale of dragons and of kings,
of castles high and serpent's wings

Hearken here, hearken hear.
I'll tell you true a tale.

A tale of madmen and of bandits,
a tale of wolves and a tale rabbits

Hearken here, my children dear.
I'll tell you true a tale.

One tale of romance and one of magic,
a tale of love, a tale that's tragic.

Hearken here.
Oh, the true tale I tell, who will hear?

Come here, have I, to bear my being.
Know you not what thou art seeing?

I take a little bit of me,
and craft it into poetry.

A soul rests on thy tongue's tip.
Will-o'-Wisps pour o're a poet's lips.

Take in ear mine lingual clay,
be crafted by the things I say.

My being is borne out here where I came,
but in the coming something, someone changed.

Pluck these glad petals from the stem.
She loves me--not--ah, love again!

Risk to lose and find love fine
but, beware the love of Borderline.

A gambler's heart likes to be teased
by the paradoxical pleas:

"God, I hate you; please don't leave!"
but there is nothing up love's sleeve.

First count the petals of love's flower
then count it joy to know a true love's power.

Real love is never born, nor feeds of hate
A gambler mustn't take the bait.

A lover's kiss my heart entombed
from pursed blade a gentle, mortal wound,
but Love should never **** the soul,
and Love's assurance not be assumed.

On ebon wings a memory glides
over horizons, past the skies
give defense or be swallowed whole
for the past lives on within those eyes.

Drink deep from your own wells my friend
even a lover would see you end,
and you alone will pay the toll
when a lover's kiss condemns, consumes your soul.