******* people
for i would rather read a single line
of prose to the stillness of a single tree
then to the warm blooded movement
of someone whose soul deadness
far surpassed that of firewood
oh for the sigh of one sympathetic
flower
who understands the wind, the rain
the sun, and the pain
of being born to close to roses
for the only difference between tears
and a single drop of rain
is where the journey began

I am sitting in front of a small coffee shop
listening to the birds chirp and smelling the rise
of cigarette smoke infiltrating my nostrils from
a barrista's hand.

random thoughts rise like smoke from my mind
as I sit and settle into myself and just take in
a everyday of this new city I arrived at last Wednesday.

The life of the urban jungle of D.C. seems far removed from
this sleepy quiet neighborhood.  No sirens every 30 minutes or sounds of construction in the distance.  

All this reflecting takes me further back and makes me muse about how I got from being an angry punk kid to now a 34 year old, who just bought a home with his wife and expecting a new baby.  I am grateful for everything that's been given to me, and especially for the ability to be grateful.

Maybe I don't really need to figure out how, but just here and now fully open to the present.

Not in rivers, but in drops
an underground stream
make way

please remember
(we are) footprints in sand
the burning of *****
the lost name of god
(I) pity the sadness
bonded by blood

Take my bones away,
march to the sea
giving their heir to the masses

Bone voyage.