Death dropped by this morning  
With espresso in a mug
Not a dainty little demitasse  
And he sat down on my rug
His face was rough with stubble
But I didn't ask him why
Some things you just don't ask
So I let some time run by

In course he gazed upon me
And in a hoarse voice spoke
“I really do not mean you harm
It's just that when I woke
I found that I was lonely
And I hoped you wouldn't mind
If I dropped by for just a while -
If that's not out of line.”

“You see I know about you,
I've seen you once or twice
And I watched you comfort others
And I thought that you seemed nice
So though your own appointment
Is a fair time away
I hoped you might allow me
A few moments here today”

“I know that people fear me
Though I never knew just why
I do a vital service
I'm really a nice guy
Do people really want to live
Forever without end?
Because that's not as good as it
Might sound to you, my friend.”

“The life you live is precious
But it's not all that there is
You can take my word on that
Or if you like, take His
There really is a purpose
And I'm part of the plan
Even though you might not see
It from this mortal land.”

You may not think all of this real
But I tell now, it's what he claimed
And when he finished up his mug
I feared I would be maimed
But that much of his words were true
He did no harm as he did say
As for the rest, who knows for sure
I guess we'll see another day.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may **** me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

God loafs around heaven,
without a shape
but He would like to smoke His cigar
or bite His fingernails
and so forth.

God owns heaven
but He craves the earth,
the earth with its little sleepy caves,
its bird resting at the kitchen window,
even its murders lined up like broken chairs,
even its writers digging into their souls
with jackhammers,
even its hucksters selling their animals
for gold,
even its babies sniffing for their music,
the farm house, white as a bone,
sitting in the lap of its corn,
even the statue holding up its widowed life,
but most of all He envies the bodies,
He who has no body.

The eyes, opening and shutting like keyholes
and never forgetting, recording by thousands,
the skull with its brains like eels--
the tablet of the world--
the bones and their joints
that build and break for any trick,
the genitals,
the ballast of the eternal,
and the heart, of course,
that swallows the tides
and spits them out cleansed.

He does not envy the soul so much.
He is all soul
but He would like to house it in a body
and come down
and give it a bath
now and then.

Every night
When we're whispering in bed
You get sleepy
And ask if I don't mind you drifting off
And I know you'd stay up if I said I did

And every night
When I say I don't mind
You say goodnight
And call me your prince
Then I say sweet dreams and hold your hand

Every morning
I wake up
Kiss your head and make you coffee
And you wake up to me saying "I love you"
Then you drag me into the kitchen where we make breakfast

And every morning
I make a mess of our ingredients
Because I'm distracted by your eyes and I'm a terrible cook
And you laugh at me, then burn the scrambled eggs
And I still love you anyway

Even though the eggs are my favorite

pap
pap
pap

I can't breath
my stomach is bubbling
like hot cheese
on an fresh oven pizza

my legs feel skinny
I want to lean into a wall
the floor looks spinny
the wainscoting is squint

my vision is blurry
because...tears?
Why is there worry
in my middle?

I feel fine,
my mind is sound
this fear isn't mine
what’s it doing here?

What is this panic?
Fight or flight I understand,
but this is plain manic.
I need to go

at top speed
or maybe hide?
Either way, be freed
from this distress.

pap
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pap

Push someone over,
human shield that ****
reduce my exposure
to hyperventilation.

Shallow in,
shallow out,
I feel akin
to sprinting Mufasa

Pure distress
acute discomfort,
a proper mental problem. Nonetheless,
it’s strange to foresee the diagnosis.

It’s as if I’m watching
from someone else’s skin
as alligator clamps are botching
holding my physiology in.

A sunburn on my innards,
a paperweight within
you’d think I’d feel pride
for finally having something wrong.

Hypochondria being accurate  
the years of inventing doom,
suddenly isn't aberrant
those fabrications had substance.

Or maybe all these thinks
are symptoms in themselves
after sifting through piles of shrinks,
maybe I can finally get some help.

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pap

Look at my pretty framed prescription,
doctor certified, messy handwriting,
this will take some decryption...
don’t worry, take your time,

this pathoreaction won't go away.
I’m told desolation
is a temperament set to stay
until after eighteen simple payments.

I’m inclined to reject treatment
of drugs that fiddle with the mind
I’d rather stay present,
continue inconsistency.

I would like to try narration,
see how many kilometers I can recall.
I can deal with frustration,
so let’s talk about my childhood.

Public transit without destination
sends me on a revere,  
an absence of crippling desperation.
I've found peace before

it was between yellow poles,
in the outside pocket
of a backpack on parole.
It smiled at me quietly.

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Apparently, it’s the small things
that help you deal with anxiety.