There are so many little tiny things.
Have you ever tried to count every pixel
Have you ever sat and counted the fibers in a rug
Have you ever traced the lines in your skin
A speckled masterpiece
Mashed mathematics and marshal law-
You are a magnet of tiny little magnitudes.
A mountain of meticulously managed meadows and malleable materials-
You are a mess from a mixologist,
But a drink so sweet
Seep deeply through every tone of button of shirt and stuffing
Be free
Be pixel sized if need be
Be kingdom
Be kindness
Be a rampart of rest to every microscopic dust particle
Be a tree
A happy tree
-
But don’t be not-
Not is such a word
None
Such a word
Nothing
Such a word
There’s no such thing as not
We always have
We always have had
And we will always
Thankfully.
-
There are so many thankful ways to live and breathe
So many breaths to take
So many contemplations to breath in with every single day
Whether you’re a happy tree
A scratch on marble
A bit of white fur in the rug
A stain
A bundle of skin muscle and bone-
There will always be more than enough to be thankful for
Even when we think about not
Even when we believe in not
Be fruitful
Be multiples not dividends
Be sappy
Be slimy
Be sloppy
Be a particle floating in a vast chasm
Be the sun itself
Be free
Be you.

a slab-less crazing-
mixture of papier-mâché;
conformation of made-less things-
quagmire bracing to break;
lonesome drought-
steer clear of my thirst;
vacuum sealed lungs-
anguish waiting to burst;
-
purified water:
landfilled with kimberlites;
there are spotless skies
reflecting off sunspotted eyes;
purified water:
a laborer letting go;
callouses like dandruff drift-
like welcoming snow
-
a son lost comes home
skies filled - no longer alone;
dead rise again
healed, hopeful, looking
at
him.

I lie down in a meadow’s grove
lay down my roots and bloom
I grow tall in a cozy home
laying roots down beside roots.
all around are the forest folk
with their fur and whiskered smiles
a gentle breeze does this forest blow
bringing bees like pollen filled isles.

all is well that ends well
and this ship ain’t ending soon
a sunset dawns and the day awaits
for the sleeping of the full sized moon.

I awake to more rustled steps
and the sound of life’s new tune
a dozen days lead into months,
it’s now years since I had just moved.
all around are the forest folk
with their love and out stretched arms
a gentle breeze does this forest blow
and the nights fill our heads with stars

all is well that ends well
and this ship ain’t ending soon
a sunset dawns and the day awaits
for the sleeping of the full sized moon.

decades pass and I open my eyes
to gaze at this empty grove
no trees are left beside my roots
no friends to call my home.
I miss the day when all the forest folk
ran under my arms and smiled,
now a wind so fierce does this forest blow
bringing dread, fear, and things most vile.

all is well that ends well
but this ship sailed way too soon
a sunset dawns and yet I’m still awake-
a cloud blocks back the light of the moon.

The Watchmen look from their tower above
and take pity on my withered leaves
the three of them take powerful arms
and finally uproot this tree-
I am taken for miles a day a times
far from that old withering state
and as I open my eyes again
I look upon many a familiar face-

all is well that ends well
as I end up in their arms
forest folk, trees, and so many more,
dace for joy in the light of our moon.

-I’m just glad I got to be with you-
-I’m just glad I ended up with you-

I don’t think that you wanted to make me,
But if you did, would you tell?
A silent note is a deafening coattail
To follow the cries and the yells-

For the roadside seems as no one else has tread here
And the wind from a breeze is never felt.
The blood on my feet indicates that I’m walking
But I think I never walked, I only fell-

If I’m the only one that is meant to endure this
Then rid me of the scenery and smell-
Let me feel alone on a world you created
A world that continually feels like hell.

But it was the past
And I didn’t care too much
I had my chance
This was a dance
Thank you for calling me off the wall-
You are a favorite memory
So the story goes
You are a favorite memory
Thank you for calling me off the wall-
This was a dance
I had my chance
And I didn’t care too much
But it was the past

Can words really move mountains
or shatter through steel?
more than that,
I find words to be idolatrous temples
paying reverence to the self god,
spoiling, decaying,
bringing finality and ruin.

there is no cure to words
there is no stopping what a mouth can create,
words surpass auditory expression.

fear the words that have yet to be spoken
loudly enough to destroy the stars in the heavens
and obliterate life as we know it.

does a sacred stone
still retain its worth
if it was never taken
from it’s hidden earth?
could it truly be
a treasure trove
if no one sees
its alluring glow?
-
is my mind right to tell me
that invisibility doesn’t cause irrelevance?
or is that just a way to cope with
the ever feared unfounded-forgotten-pestilence