I’ve lived in the thrush
and hot candle wax
a palm of welting skin pressed against a foggy window
damp with the grit and sweat of dawn
I stepped into the copse
bundled in its swarthy tightness
there is rot here
and flesh
the pulsing of a heart
giving life to each sapling and elder branch
if one wants to find the heart of the forest
look no further than up
the moon
a woman in her own right
no celestial body can deny this truth
there is a certain relativity to one’s heart
and to the extent of which blood and flesh and bone define us
I wanted to believe in something not purely physical
that could tell me what I was or could be
but my blood and flesh and bone
bind me
to the dirt and to the heart of the forest
which I hope
I believe
is not purely physical
in its own right

I was afraid of living

I would now like to declare myself insane
And I’d like to be left alone
If possible I’d like some bitter tea to sip
Whilst watching static on the television
Sleep…
               Sleep…
                             Sleeping…
Transfixed in a half mad stupor
                             Slip…
               Slip…
Slipping…
It’s funny how you suddenly realize these things
Waking up to a demon hanging from your ceiling
Sluggish
and
clinging
to
threads
My seams stitched together
To keep my humanity from pouring out
Stability
Tick…
             Tick…
                            Ticking away…
I’m a time bomb
And you’re all getting burnt
When I blow

So vibrant a character
that he creates a roaring symphony
with a glance in your direction,
and as he walks
the colors form in his footprints,
because he keeps his soul
at the bottom of his shoe...
You must follow the trail,
You must look into his eyes,
be deafened by his music.
You wonder if he hears it too,
if he sees the dazzling spectrum
left in his steps. They tell his story,
but you cannot read its brilliance,
you cannot look into his eyes
long enough to finish the symphony  
before he breaks your gaze,
and you cannot reach the gold
at the end of his rainbow trail
because it never stays for long,
just long enough to be admired
before he disappears
to come again after the storm,
and beckons you to follow him
into the sky
                    where he floats,
                                  just out of reach…

This is the little girl with September in her smile who wants nothing more than for her feet to grow wings as she dances to fly her to somewhere without bounds.

This is the boy who resorts to hiding his Walt Whitman behind a comic book so people don't question the light in his eyes.

These are the revolutionaries still waiting for their messiah. Who've yet to learn how to grab opportunity by its earlobes and drag it to where they can beat as much out of it as possible.

These are the lost ones
Those who forget where they come from or where they're going
Those with sandpaper skin and voices that tell their lives with one syllable
To those who are lost
Here's my advice

Looking in unlikely places is where you'll most likely find adventure
And never leave home without a journal and pen
Because changing the world usually starts with an idea inked on paper
Walking along with your nose in a book is an excellent way to bump into someone doing the exact same thing
If you stand in high places
You'll often feel what you think is the urge to jump
But more than that it's the urge to fall and see if your dreams will carry you off into the raspberry sorbet sky or if they'll drop you like a lump of lead on the sidewalk broken and bleeding and wishing you'd never dared to dream in the first place.
And if you want to preach, you don't need white robes and golden pedestals to do it right
Your heart will get broken sometimes
But when that happens all you have to do is put a hand on your chest and feel the pumping and pulsing the humming and drumming the ticking and tocking of your clockwork heart as it pumps liquid life through your veins telling you that it's okay if you need to eat an entire tub of ice cream
Everyone does now and then

Just remember,
You are who you pretend to be
So it's not a bad idea to make-believe you can turn your aspirations into dandelion fluff to grab hold of and sail away into the unknown where they will come to rest to bloom and grow and lift you so high you can touch the sun, round and golden as a dandelion blossom...

As occasional insomniacs may know
There are certain sounds that only occur past midnight
When everything is still
They awaken…
Scuttling and skittering
along hardwood floors
Crackling, creaking
the sounds of a settling house
Tapping, rapping
from inside the walls
the sudden rush of motion
on a deserted street
someone’s chasing
always chasing
no time for sleep
Then you, enveloped in starlight
You entangled in sheets
Maybe hidden under your duvet
Maybe staring out your window
into the night