You throw yourself at my feet like a child, arms all splayed and
Ready to welcome.

The words you speak are so sweet like mid-morning dew, honey of the night is all that
Remains in the morning.

Your soul aches to know what it is like to be in my arms, but my arms ache with the
Weight of your soul.

The hope you put into this "thing" is beautiful and frightening, being ready to give up
All you have gained.

Knowing the hurt and pain of my darkened past does not throw you, and you
Are always near.

But can you not see all the confusion and twisted branches that have become the
Life I live?

Do you really have a desire to climb to the top of this tree, for fear of falling head-first
Is always there?

I flip and balk and retreat and retrace and say "I don't know," but you are always
Waiting with a hand.

In the wings of my life you wait until the curtain is open and the stage is set, the trap door open and the
Time is right.

I was with the ocean last night and your body
Was its vessel, overflowing.  Words were frail,
Drops indwelling about the shapeless sky,
Water reaching for its own height and breath,
Like touch, were as desperate letters exchanged,
Endlessly read, until like loamy vellums, they
Disappeared in our hands.  Inklings of tide-
Pool and driftwood.

                               My blood was a river that ran
Its course.  Members feeding your deltas and birds
Breeding where the water-russet sheds on pampas
And inverness.  Eyes like wing through ever—
Green, empties the fossil shell.  Fire, brimming
Mountaintops that were, for countless millennia,
Sleeping.  Did I mention that the earth moved?
No?  Her displacement was involuntary.

Then came the waterfalls, lifting throughout
Time.  The scent, searching for its identity,
The wave, calling to its own name— Ocean,
O— cean.  And flowers, opening like galaxies
In the after-light.  A universe of face and hand
With hunger for salt-rain and then the cloud
Burst-blue and spilt and spun more redolent,
Deities, in joyous creation.

I breathe, in your ocean, like a child unborn.

I always get terribly nervous
Running into people I sort of knew
But didn't know
And now I just stay quiet on my phone reading morning articles past the afternoon migration
And laugh at a witty fathers joke.

The way I ate my Lays was weird
She knows it and now conversation is out of any equation
I was about to punch into an iPhone calculator
Circulation ended in my hands down.

Children are creation, lovely doves.

Snowflakes and fingerprints
We are all 'unique.'
But if we account into this,
the law of probablilty
and an infinite amount of time.
Will there ever be two identical snowflakes?
Will my DNA ever be replicated,
or am I already a copy of someone else's view
And even in
one billion years
will there
ever
be
another you?

I look for inspiration in the people.
I find a hoard of ink, no paper.

I look for inspiration in the carpet.
I find an entire religion.

Society is a case of forward smiles and back logged tears. Most of us are crying most of the time. Look at that middle aged grimace, the Starbucks smile of I'm-here-because-I-have-to-be.

I'm sorry you were born a human being.

Our greatest tragedy is the fact that it could be better. Life could be a breeze. But we won't let it be, we must keep on pushing gravity back into space.

We demand the air march into our lungs; we order the water to our bellies. We do all this as if it wouldn't happen of itself.

That is our greatest tragedy.
Life as beyond is a miracle. Life in the circle is death in constant progress.

The end.