Apr 2, 1987

I wonder how they met,
What magic thread drew them together
In ever-tightening stitches
Till their fabrics began to mesh.

I wonder how they knew
This was the One inside whose head –
And heart – they’d find themselves.

Peculiar pulsing rhythms
Unheard by strangers’ ears,
Or need that flows from deep recess
Of silent hearts?

Dancing in the stillness of the night
To music ringing in my soul;
As yet unheard, my secret name
Calls out to other’s honest places:
Claim me, find me, take me home.

Sept. 10, 1987

Inside old ladies on bicycles
I see ghosts of young girls,
pigtails flying from beneath their greying hair
eyes sparkling behind thick glasses.

I search in me, for ghosts of hopscotch
and double-dutch, two-***** and tag.
I can feel them shimmer,
holograms of my youth.

I search, too, for the ghost
of the old lady I will become.
I sense her, frail but determined,
fading, but not dead before she dies.

If little girls live inside old ladies,
and age hides just beneath young faces,
there is no such thing as time.

How we marvel at possessions, think they make the best impressions;
For with material things we establish a close rapport.
Can’t you see we are infected by this false truth we’ve injected
Into the minds we’ve neglected, directed by commercial lore.
"These things will make you happy,” says the preacher of commercial lore,
Only this and nothing more.

There are nights we sit there spying, through our computer screens buying
Bourbon, books, and onyx watches, razor blades and house décor,
Bright scarfs in brilliant vermilion, cowboy boots coated reptilian,
Stroll through any mall pavilion, civilians went in every store.
Like clockwork we comeback again, millions spent in every store;
We always want something more.

Like in monopoly we aspire, the best estates to acquire,
So other players can look in envy at our great high score.
With the money we’ve been savin’, we want a home in New Haven,
So we sought a market Maven, craving a house on the shore,
A vintage house with wooden dock sitting calmly on the shore.
Can we find one that’s worth more?

Queerly we lust for assets, keep on buying have no regrets.
Are we dumb or blind or numb to keep doing what we abhor?
Statues shackled to cubicles, doped up on pharmaceuticals
****** fingers raw cuticles, we’re bulls for the matador.
He dances us round in circles, pulls the sword the matador
Is the one we all fall for.

But the Maven respectfully will encourage us helpfully,
“Follow your path of senseless sorrow, leave your qualms at the door,
Carry on with inhibition, keep working for that commission,
Please don’t mind your intuition, fruition comes from spending more.”
But like layered lies there’s a pea of truth on the mattress floor;
A princess would wake up sore.

We must move past our gluttony, and join the better company
Of men meek in spirit who act humbly like the days of yore.
Realize that joy stems from passion, not this sorry thing called fashion;
Embrace others with compassion to truly make our hearts soar;
And our souls from out the shadows can truly begin to soar.
Let’s be greedy – nevermore.