Flip flip slide slide
grind grind pop pop
concentration.

hours and hours
sweat pours
bruised ankles bruised kneecaps
scraped shinbones scraped elbows
scabs and scars.

shirts and jeans torn, worn;
shoes a tattered mess--
laces shredded to bits tied desperately
clinging on to lapping tongues.

hair matted to skull sweating within damp skullcaps,
whether be it helmets (by choice or restriction),
or fitted baseball hats turned backwards,
or cuffed beanies in the dead of winter.
(father says the latter choices work well to soak all the blood up, I always roll my eyes in naivete.)

The paved driveway, where on my eighth birthday
a shining basketball goal sat at its full height
towering in the mountain sky--

stood forlorn in place as wide eyes glued to the pavement--

where shoes stood atop the gritty surface of a wooden board
with wheels attached to gleaming metal axles
rolled smoothly excitedly across the pavement in perpetuity.

destiny.

Fleeting thoughts frantically leave the realm of intuition
As the potential of the poem comes to fantastic fruition

Books are like flowers
Their words pollen seeds,
Carried far and wide
By all those who read.
With other words merge
To new life ignite
In the fertile minds
Of all those who write.
There tended, nourished
For hour after hour.
Encouraged to grow,
To once more flower.

Had you been born as another
We would have gone to buy
Expensive coffee in the afternoon
We would have sit and talked
About the cyber crime
Or the new capitalism

Had you been born as another
We would have spent anniversaries
On vacations by the beach
We would have let the sun watch
As we kiss in an endless summer
Crashes of blue all ignored by us

Had you been born as another
We would have become liberals
Seeking the comfort of the Ivory Tower
We would have left the city
And let the stars be our guides
There is nothing money cannot buy

Had you been born as another
Would you have been just as unattainable
As you are now?

Had you been born as another
Would you have become the beautiful man
That I fell in love with?

I loved you
I loved your shadow
I loved your sign

I loved what I thought you were
I loved the shadow that my thoughts projecting about you
I loved the signs  that my mind created about you

I didn’t love you
because you don’t exist
you are fake

Is loving better than ******?
Yes, so good for the endorphins,
As into golden years we're a'morphing,
So, better than ****** is our loving,
My hair and skin are a'glowing,
Through the window you are going,
Any loving is good loving,
As my olden age is greying,
To my lover I'm imagining,
You are in my brain's imagination,
For guaranteed satisfaction,
So, is this good for the endorphins?
Yes, loving is better than ******!

I navigate in the sky of imagination
I loomed on the stage
I occurred on the stage
the projects questioned me
I recognize the imagination
would I reserve it?
I looked upon the glaciers
while I sniff the generosity of the imagination
I called
if there is more to imagination?
but the dancer of imagination fled me

I know that when I am older, I will no longer be able to throw the harsh truth of reality at ones such as my grandchildren.

Too them, I will live till I’m 105. Standing as the essence of immortality that they strive to experience. This of course is a lie. But, I can longer take it upon myself to destroy the dreams and quash the creativity of the young in a world of Grey.  

Walk with me through this verdant street I am going to tell you a story about a strange place...

In this strange place, instead of colour splashing itself against any and every object there only seems to be shades of grey. And in this Grey world, each generation of children receives a red balloon. The red balloon constantly engages the youth with its seemingly magical properties of levitation. But this engagement can only last for so long. Eventually the floating ball of rosa can no longer captivate and mystify. At the crucial point of demystification, the children are deemed “ready” to face the world.

So the children do the only thing left to do to join the rest of society…they let go of that slight bit of that small, rose-colored rubber which, with the help of the wind and its abundant hydrogen molecules floats off to meet the sky.

I am proud to present to you, the saddest moment our society has to offer. The loss of the inner child to the vast machine of the demiurge.

****** of the greatest caliber carried out in the name of growing up and becoming part of "real" world.

But hey,
on the bright-side, the sky gets to play with a balloon

for a few minutes before it throws it back, without magic, without life, and without its marveling child.

So, I beseech you, the reader to forever hold onto that red balloon. Hold on till your knuckles turn white because it’s that tiny, 3 cent, red balloon is the most special item in this infectious process we call Human Society.