What if the lucrative nature of illicit things
wasn't thought of as a symptom of absent morality,
but rather was though of as a symptom
of the flawed nature
of the concept of Money
itself?

So overqualified
for the position of
"awful Influence"

You may not know it by looking at me
But I live life on the edge
At any given moment on any given day
I laugh in the face of death

Why, just the other night I didn't brush my teeth
Before I went to bed
That may shock you beyond all belief
But that's just the reckless man that I am

And if that isn't crazy enough
I remember not so long ago
Going outside in the pouring rain
Without my galoshes on

Can life be lived any more daring
I know your dying to ask
When you live life on the edge like I do
That my friend is a simple known fact

So don't say I didn't warn you
That I live a wild and crazy life
It may put your head into a spin
But that's just how it is that I ride

When I'm feeling extra spunky I refuse to use blinkers
And use hand signals instead
That's how it is in the business
Of riding in the fast lane with death

Your probably thinking with all of this madness
How can one man even survive
I guess I need to clarify I'm very careful
With a lot of things in my life

I do wear my cars safety belt
I've read up on all of the facts
Speed kills even at the top end of twenty
Which I do to save on my gas

And anti-bacterial lotion
I don't do one squirt but two
Don't let that change your opinion of me
Being Mr. Daring to you

Cause one thing that I always do
And I know your going to say "NO WAY!"
I sometimes ride the city bus
Without having the correct change..

My breath is lost as I gaze upon the magnitude of the mountains that surround me. I marvel at how beautifully the water reflects the sky, pure white clouds stretched across blankets of soft pinks and blues as the sun sets behind the trees. I see the steadiness of Your hand in the horizon. I see Your love of variety in shells scattered along the shoreline. I see Your flawless detail in the veins of a maple leaf. I see Your creative spark in fireflies glowing subtly against the darkness of an airy August night. I hear You in the winter wind, I feel You in the summer heat. My soul is flooded with joy at the sight of Your creation. I cannot help but lift my hands and praise You.

The kettle whistles plaintively as if it knows it's time for tea
but the time is only five past three,
far too early
and she's the one who put the kettle on
but
she, went back to sleep
leaving me to keep my ears awake until I rise,get up and make a
brew.

I don't know what to do,
should I make the tea?
would she thank me If I woke her with some toast and tea upon a silver coaster?
I think not.
She's got me wrapped around her little finger,slinging me a crumb or two and leaving me to make the brew.
Sod the kettle
let it whistle on,
she chose the tune,she knows the song,meanwhile
this hungry boy is gone
to get some coffee and a scone, in a diner down the street.

Let her wake and wonder why
the kettle's dry,there is no tea
let her wonder
what became of me
but
she,
will take it in her stride
she's got her pride and that won't slip.
I think this as I sip my drink and wonder if she'd ever think
just how much'brew a man can take
how many tea's a man can make
before he cracks.

I keep my back against the wall
lest she should fall from a great height and beat me senseless,
it would serve me right
but this I do not let her know
I go
to work
whistling.

I found you in the cracks of winter. On our first date, we drank tea from cups bigger than our faces. You also told me you wrote poetry. I noticed how every time you would lick your lips before you would speak. The first time you read me a poem your window was open and it was raining. Your voice cracked and you cleared your throat six times. I was smitten. After our third date, I showed you my favorite place in the world. I took you to a bay on the outskirts of town. I told you the stories I carved into the sand a long time ago. I told you I came here every time the world kept turning but I felt as though I've fallen off, waiting for a guitar solo crash or a midnight knock on my window.

I wanted to tell you, you were my midnight knock. You let me hold your book of poems that night. There were bite marks in them from when you said you climbed up in trees back when you were as tall as the kitchen counter. We had conversations of Bon Iver and soccer as we laid on the sandy bay.

I realized that night I wanted to be there with you when the clock swallows up your time and watch indie movies on Netflix when there is nothing good on TV. I turned to look into space and swallowed all my feelings. I felt hollow when I looked at you and noticed your skin was old and tired. But you looked at me like you were young. You said I was the first to make you feel this way. I was smitten.

At first, I looked at you like a star but ended up seeing the whole solar system.