I know this like the Black of my Hands
because to ignorance, truth is profound
but to Experience, Truth is an *** Round
found in Leadbelly trying to run down
Freedom Ring crt. tied to a pair a shoot
or hanging
on the last rung
of this corporate splatter

it doesn't have to be
perfect.

you're cutting demos
not diamonds.

i'm creating paragraphs
not parachutes.

she's drawing pictures
not pistols.

he's constructing bookshelves
not buildings.

we're making differences
not disasters.

we don't have to be
perfect
to be
poets.

Where collects the thoughts of the paraplegic
sitting alone in thoughts
of a past no longer perfect ?

The glowing red sun sets behind the hill
as life flows by against our will

Every step has a purpose
even when we are running away

Each cause has effect
but once motored
it is here to stay

Tell me of the sands of time
how fickle they stand

Against the winds of change
a dead man's hand

Everyday , so much the same
never the moment to be again
Such a little word
that means so much , "never" again

Blessed yet all are the same
taken for granted , a dance of denial
Catch us before our great fall
Parachute us . . . or we won't
be even able to crawl