A Great Wind:

A Great Persistent Wind,
Roared across the country.
A Nation of ostriches,
Stirred Sanctimoniously,
By the Sudden Surrounding
Of The Chaotic Breeze.

Are you burying your head  deeper than the dead?
Hoping to dig yourself to safety?
Only a sandy asphyxiation lay in waiting...

These Times,
These Trials,
These Tests,
They are Opportunities,
They are Invitations,
"Lift your heads from the sand and gaze upon the wild glory of life"

Will you heed the call? Or Deepen your withdrawal?

A relationship should be predicated on choice, not chase.

Have you ever caught an alley cat?

You cannot chase it far, and even if you trap it,
it will run at first chance it gets.

Fall in love with life again.
In a way that welcomes others,
but does not require it.
Fall in love with life again,
like a child set loose unto pandemoniac playgrounds

If you have an answer,

If you have an answer,
You're missing the point.

Instead,
think yourself straight into the canyon of the contraries.

Do you feel the storm alight in your mind?
Can you hold both options as true simultaneously?

Watch.
The Clouds change.
No longer storms,
but instead
revitalizing nacreous  rains.

Only the fearful threaten violence;
 When there is still the possibility for Reason to prevail.

If I were a poet:

If I were a poet,
I'd write everyday.

I'd laze by all the bubbling brooks,
reclined by slithering streams,
Suspended by ongoing dreams.

If I were a poet,
I'd travel far.
I would talk to the losers,
the loners,
all the slackjaws.
They always have the best stories, by far.

If I were a poet,
I'd fill volumes of pages,
with instructions,
with the means of navigating,
the circumference of your beauty throughout the ages.

If I were a poet,
I'd know what I was,
I could answer every fool,
at my local corner bar.

But I am not a poet,
I know not what-
-except I am.

I have no answer for:
"What do you do?"
It is as much a mystery to me,
as it is to you.

Nevertheless,
The work continues.

Awoke with a single thought:

Presence is a present,
it's all we have.

When Gods Come to Eat

I have been that man on the street,
with nothing to eat,
nothing but a six string,
and longing,
to warm his frozen feet.

I have been that girl, so far from home,
fresh bleeding wounds on her head,
contusions,
so alone.

I have been that baby running in the street,
running ignorantly toward a rushing mechanical stream.

I have been that man stumbling,
falling, but,
never not once,
dropping his drink.

I have been that trash can burning wildly,
fueled for disaster.

So when I see them on the street,
on the road,
nestled between resting streets,
I always try to leave them with more, than what I found them with,
and just a little less of the darkness.

Besides, who knows?
There are many tales,
that the weary traveler,
is but a mask
of a divine mind.

Intelligence-

IS the design.