we will not wake up one day
with all the answers
written on the back
of a map of the labyrinth.

we just turn corners.

we will end up keeping to the
parts that we've painted houses on
and calling it sacrifice;
if only god were pulled from
smoke so easily.

have you judged this yet?
does it make the grade?

my ego sure hopes so.

he is the type to leave
apples on your desk.
he is also afraid
of the naked horror of
everything clawing
at the foot of his
deathbed,
my ego that is.

the truth,
mud is just a word for something, ravens do not call themselves
ravens, and a fire can blacken the sky.

it is all just a joke though.

has that gavel swung yet?
have the numbers been crunched?

you should put it into
poetry.
create a philosopher's stone
and force feed it to someone you
love.

please.
i need it.