Three day bus ride away from everything in the world that could be right. At this moment I'm caught in reality as if it were a dream and it seems to be playing out perfectly. Piecing together now or never, my days are long and beautiful like the strings of a harp. And I play. I play with these strings of hope and these strings of reason, searching ( Read more... )

I'll sing into a deep cave
my lungs open wide to exude all the force that could create light in a dark place,
something small and warm nestled in leaves loving
laughing for the echo and company in sound
singing out of a chest beating deep inside my body
heart heaving to burn bright

I'm jumping ship and shipping to shore the thoughts of old from days of yore and the sound barrier is broken by notions so loud they make the east and west coast curl in upon themselves to meet and hear what I think about the day today is the day is the day is the day wandering away and toward to and fro back and forward weighing down down the way ( Read more... )

Under cover of soft sheet ( Read more... )

Tainted diseased and wondering begging please give me that heart let me into your soul smell the baked goodness of a well seasoned home motherly love and friendly advice tell me some good news and I'll take it by and by I come by and by I come call me back to the bedroom with sheets tangled and curled round arms that embrace and a chest full of ( Read more... )

I'm running away from the distances between human heart beats and sleeping under bridges rather than in beds, I'm close now to the ultimate forever and the place never looked so damn empty my heart into this cup and drink it til it's gone to the other place the other time somewhere better be sure to find me there I'll leave a letter to tell you ( Read more... )

Pin me up against pine boughs bowing with elegant grace and stormy snow flakes quiver under the thumb of the one true poet I am not a writer or an artist they say the proof is in it somewhere do you dare to seek the stone cast from pages of prose blowing soft needles of spruce through open windows sticking to curtains in the cold wind winding ( Read more... )

sweetly sipping sinewy somberness from my golden carpet ride in the high tides of mountain mires and mucky spires and steeple bells that ring when the gates of hell open saying hello miss what a fine day it is so sharp the soiree you've stepped into to dance the samba with a black mamba meeting my soul under the pillows and growing old together ( Read more... )

Standing on top of golden umbrellas shooting the wind out of fiery aye aye aye balls backed out of gyrating gunshots singling out the ringing spots to which we wander when worlds rip apart at the underskirt of fringed feelings that trip out of the sidewalk baring fruit of mushrooms small red dots cover the saloon that I'm in and there's about to ( Read more... )

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?