Manifesto

few new words, here.

just the punk scene-

feral, free.

and the accompanying 

knowledge that

others battle the tide, too,

mouths as salty with sea water.

others

giving to become,

dancing in the trenches,

transported beyond classroom cubicles

by the music of

celestial fabrics,

of me,

of me meeting you,

of whispers from the lips of

God.

we all set up shop there,

use intermittent sunlight

to grow and sell our bluebells,

our quirky flower children.

we all capture

the poetry of moments,

all maroons

in cozy sanctuaries

 rich

with the music of

intuition, of 

loss of pride, and

old book smells.

How Much Time

do i need for me,

really?

i want to sleep nights on Central Park benches.

i want to buy a bookstore.

i want to feel a horse between my thighs.

i want to drape myself in Moroccan silks.

Simple Solutions,

i'd like you to meet

Bureaucratic Barricades.

is there real need

for the two sides

to every coin

buried in bank vaults

and sock drawers?

but vessels to be 

filled.

i want to reform the public education system.

i want to become a nun.

i want to be in the darkness with you.

i want to see unicorns.

just being (t)here,

lost in idealism

and the lines on my palms.