I believe in predestination like a hard cover
book lying open underneath a ceiling fan. I believe
in imagination unfettered like the wheels
of a bike kicking up rain. I believe in tasting
everything like the teething puppy chewing
all the furniture. I believe in arrangements
like the photographer with no camera. I believe
in impetus like the dry clump of dirt that erupts
into fine powder because of a little tension
in between your fingers. I believe in relevance
like the poetry addict who wants to ask Emily
Dickinson where she got her cardigan. I believe
in economy like Curiosity who found her way
home by following the trail of cat crumbs she left earlier.
I believe in complacency like the larkspur
in love with a promiscuous hummingbird.
I believe in delusion like  the saxophone player
who can’t distinguish Carnegie Hall
from the subway station.

i swear its juice from those cherries i was eating
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                                                           Not
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                  Blood
on the bed.i feel bad when you feel bad about things you shouldn't feel bad about.
with
one of those headaches that creeps
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                                                       down
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                   your
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                   neck
into your fingers
i suddenly realize that spreaders of Love are
shot in the head
while the cruelly corrupt plant rows and rows of seeds

what
if
Silence
doesn't work the way they think it does?

sometimes i get caught up in the biggest black magick trick of them all
money is as invisible as the man in the sky who invents freedom of choice and then punishes you if you make the wrong one
playground games for playground minds
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                            sickeningly,
        ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                    it works.

Retaliation! throwing out my makeup / stimulating synapses / loving shamelessly / asking questions / absorbing information /being unreasonable / never apologizing

                                                    ­         Ceasing to Fear because as Lennon said
                                                            ­death is but leaving one train for another.

You were thirsty.
So I said I will meet you in a dream
and pour you a glass of sparkling pink
lemonade over dry
ice. As it sublimates
a shroud of frothy mist
will form and travel past
the brim into the air
between us.

And you will
trace silvery incantations
onto the glass with your
fingertip. The mist will linger, but then
it will thin,
eventually it will evaporate so
all that is left at the bottom
of the cup is a shallow pool
of sparkling lemonade.
Your etchings, dissolved.

At this point in the dream, I will leave
for a few years. When I come back
the cup will still be in the same place
you left it and I will breathe close to it
the fog of my breath will cling
to the glass and like a ghost
it will reappear: All that
disappeared; All that
you wrote, years ago.

Then I will wake up
and forget this dream.
Years are only seconds
combined. The evidence
will remain, my tongue
quaking from the burn
of dry ice. My head
wavering with confusion,
as though what it contains
is not opaque, but foggy,
pink and citrus. From
this point on, I can't say
what will happen to you.

as I sit near the sill of my window; eyes of my home
the scent of jasmine tinges the air; my sensual bridge
that the bonfire blistering days of summer seasons approach me, I know
that the tiny rocks that rattle in the basin of my guitar
must be lonely and without sound to keep them company.

when I write I feel quaint
more so than thinking,
more so than living?
when I write about myself
I only tell the worst parts
and that keeps me hungry
where is the good?

knowledge cannot be attained
when one's mind is weary; give up the geist!
and revel in insanity. You will,
you will, always in time you will.

To write is to breathe;
gasping for words to keep from
soul suffocation.