THE GECKO HALL
I've rowed a rotting dinghy
across a Cloudy Sea.
Charcoal Grey boards are like silence.
It is not too much to ask
to feel and to think.
It is not too much to ask
to be different from everyone else.
But then don't expect to be understood.
If you are a coarse tendril
Then welcome to the bureau
Of those who are or who will be.
There is no steel tetrahedron
In the middle of the square.
There is no reason why
Things should be as they are.
And It is not so much that
Reptiles don't dream.
It is that the
Proletariat Police
Are on patrol for those not like them.
I am a whirling dervish
In the Prince of Peace Brigade.
I am the Kevlar steward
At the gecko soup ball.
I am sometimes distant
Like a Pharaoh at the edge of space.
THE LILAC BUSH
You sprawl although you
Do not know where you are.
Your flowers are bruised
And your function is simple.
All you are for is to
Be what you are.
And do what you do.
And live as you were meant to live.
The only way that you ever wanted to live.
Purple petals are what you do best.
ICE WATER SPRING
In the Knotted woods
Near the Hovel-Hole
Where the sunlight
Reflects from the leaves
Like radioactive pixels
In a pointillist painting
Places are often elsewhere
Daylight is often nowhere.
This is the deep jagged pond
Icy cold and icy clear
Where all the crotchety-crooked
Gothic-Gnarl trees have eased
their tired brow-bent roots
Over the ground to the waters edge.
YURI AND ME
In some dark forbidding gulag
Too far away to see
Is a person who imagines
A better way to be.
If the wood in the table had a deeper grain
There would be more texture to wear smooth
More cracks to fill
More faces to console
Discontent is the ability to see
What might have been
And what could still be
IN PROGRESS
There is still time today
To storm the Bastille
If you can make your face
Unclench its deceptive tone.
But don't linger too long
In the absurdity of wholesomeness
For the Beatitudes did not
Contemplate that wolverines
might inherit the earth
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