Submerged in the diversity of insanity
Close to the brink of knowing what
and who holds the key to the plausible
Witness.

On the banks of the river flowing,
Watching the trickle and flow go by
above the bottoms, where slow rocks
and greened living things only pause.
Too fast to see a reflection on the surface.
Shallow enough to wet easily the floor of
both hand and broken shale bed.
The day, not bright nor gloomy, somewhere betwixt.
Neither cold nor warmth, but that
comfortable soft of a morning after
Making love
or a late spring evening at a cafe.
Hair slightly blowing.
Not wanting to go back.
wanting to just be here, until darkness
hides the hills beyond.
Or crushes all the somber thoughts out
Entirely.
Maybe it would take days-
Days that aren't available.
Days taken up with the usual
Mundane but thankful coffee routine
Days at the gas pump, paying ten bucks
for the days movements here and there.
Days dreaming of reaching those
Goals, of doing those things
that get put off into some
Kind of desire box
that nobody gave you the key to open.
And in all those mundane yet bearable days
In all those wise books, where interesting
and deep, and successful people
Tell you...
where to find that key, does the flavor
of the ritual change from this AM
to this PM?
Not wanting to go back, but staying instead
Staying like it was, when sitting for
Hours under the stars with a best
Friend, or lying on backs to watch
Clouds pass.
It wasnt really vagabond-ness, rather the
Acceptance that time still didnt exist.
That passion was allowed to be free.
That the body held its own, even when
you destroyed it too frequently.
But more than that...
watching the water pass by,
I think I want to stay just here.



For my kid at bedtime:
If heaven were my best friend
and angels were like butterflies
and mountains were like ladders,
Id climb into your skies.
If orchids were like lollipops,
Id fly from tree to tree
there'd be plenty of honey
All for you and me.
Id climb into your skies