If I were a planet, I would be as debated as Pluto.
Scientists eons away that have no business with me and probably never will discussing all of my qualities to pinpoint me into a label they've created to push me like a pinball machine into different slots of make believe self esteem.

If I were a planet, I would be the one whose moon is speculated to be made of cheese.
No one quite aware of what really lies out there but it's fun to dream up stories and ideas that we know will never be true.
No matter how damaging to this solemn planet's reputation in its universe these folk tales may be.

If I were a planet, my sun would have an oval shaped revolution, sometimes close and sometimes far, moving its inspiration along on its route and leaving just when my people need it the most.

If I were a planet, my living organisms would speak in tongues unknowing to even me.
Desperately searching every tick in them to see how they view their home, but always confusing me as I spin on my axis round and round.

A day is a day until day becomes dusk
Then dusk becomes night
And night becomes night
And night becomes night
And night becomes night
Then night turns to dawn
And with the sun comes the dark
And the dark takes the life
And the life becomes light
As it fades with the memories
Of those who were lost
As the days turn to days

No pain no gain is an understatement

Pushups are a form of punishment

You respect your captains every single day

And trust your choreographer to lead the way

You leave the field sweating, makeup in your eyes

A fire burning in your heart... and in your thighs

Practice every day, dripping with sweat

That six-foot pole no longer a threat

Working hard to be the best

Every weekend is your test  

You gain new family and friends

With each other till the very end

Bonds that last all year

People to project all your fears

This is where you throw it all down

Because in the band, you're the crown

You make the show

And you need to know

To hold your head up high

And don't you dare be shy

Cause the countless hours you have spent

Can't be bought with any cent

Cause Denise's bleeding hands

And Beave's constant demands

Always changing

Always rearranging

Working hard to make the show great

Making sure to keep your posture straight

This. Is. Colorguard.

Which will always have a place in my heart

5 A steeping beauty.
7 The absence of absorption
5 Holds surface tension.
7 She, engrossed in quiet thought,
8 Brews a turbulent sea in depth.

I remember Reaching for your hand before we first kissed.

I remember Enjoying the warmth of our hands touching as did our lips.

I remember Measuring my words whispered in your ear, to take you beyond bliss.

I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.

I remember Minutes spent together, the blood pounding in my state of light headed
bliss.

I remember Brown eyes drinking in my blue eyes, as we touched finger tips.

I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.

I remember Relishing the next time our hands would be closer than our lips.

I remember
the letter
you wrote
saying it was
better that
this was good-
bye, I was across
the country
and could
not test the
look in your
eyes, gone
cold. This
rememberance
is very old.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched me sit down there, at a small table.
There were two black tables small, with four chairs each, her eyes shut, she slept.
Her phone at her elbow, tension, burdened ****** features, i prayed.

I left her, I walked out, found a man bent over, a humble posture
At peace, bent head covered, his tobacco stained fingers laced, prayerfully.
He was a blue jean Jesus, beard bore the same stains as his rough hewn hands.

I passed by briskly and did not look him in the eye, walked down the street.
The blonde pole dancer next caught my eye, she wore short shorts that bared her thigh.
Her habit called, the street she knew, "No Fear, Little Sleep, and Need of Prayer"

This will land like focaccia,
Like the careless 'forgot ya'!

And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia.

The ebullient cashier trainee
remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders
for coffee,

Cars are lined up for the drive-
through, their voices sound like
didjeridoos, in the ears covered
by single cyborg clip-ons

headset taking orders.

The ****** iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside,

his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall,

While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea,

lagniappe of chocolate stashed,

away in her voluptuous bag,  the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon,

and she can't wait for her break
so she can eat with Olio Nuovo
olive oil, and Selection Artisan
ged balsamic vinegar, she brought
to dip, her focaccia bread in,
which she forgot almost,
on the counter at home.