"what was the Maltese Falcon?" the boy asks.

his father replies, "The stuff that dreams are made of."


the world is loud:
sirens,
headlines,
grief, love, fear,
heartbreak and flames.

life is a rat race
and the rats are winning

so throw confetti at the funeral.

we name our ghosts
and call them love.
we chase the falcon
of black painted lead,
light candles in an empty room
and call it faith.

where do we go from here?

walk against the parade
through costumes,
floats and marching bands?

the night runs through us all
while the world politely burns.

we call it sanity...this quiet compliance.

but clarity assumes rebellion.
take the straight line
through the storm.

throw confetti at our funeral.
(sadness wears confetti, well.)


every moment the soul screams
we tread closer to the razor's edge.