So Little

I admit to you, and most freely do I say so, without even the tiniest bit of fainted faulty regret, that at first I too thought as the same old easy lined street of trees as before they came into the harbor of our souls with their many long and terrible boats,that surely there would be peace, but floating like arrows being thrown at you instead of shot, we were purged of free at last, free at last, but nothing's so purely free from you just being the present being inside the place of all holy trees as this; so you mean to tell me you think just because you don't see it in its purest percolating performing painful smiling self, it doesn't wake up and walk all around you looking for some ounce of truth or joy to somehow behold instead of the doom of so much celebrated gloom? Jesus, it's the same utter ugly blindness wherever you go. People waiting around and around and around the bush again like dizzy little children, many more times than even that for some kind of messiah to take them sweetly up by the trembling hands and kiss their good little exposed foreheads with all the love the cardboard universe has to offer, instead of just simply rising up off their aching knees for once in their shaking to pieces rattling glass self lives and saying, no, no thank you, I ain't your kind. I am no man's or monster's slave.

I like my secret cache of urgent dreams as much as the next guy. I just don't need your permission to write this poem. I don't have to clear it with you first before I break all the rules in search of some new kind of authenticity of my own making. The only reasons

they teach you that way is to keep their jobs from crumbling before their bodies do, and of course to keep

a false wall between themselves and all the incoming hordes of thick skulled barbarians foaming at the clattering gate. The funny thing is they're the ones most likely to stick

a germ infested sword into 

your overeager faces over some imagined slight they know is a damnable lie. You could just be the one. But let's have some sympathy here, you're going to have to recognize

yourself, sooner or later, as the one who is fast coming after you, but that's all semantics isn't it, where's the right one, the true 

love? Isn't that always the underlying thing? Those who don't care are satisfied with buying whatever looks good. It's still

a plucked leaf against some very huge rain clouds. Stars will explode and you will explode with them all over the proverbial windshield. This does

not now nor 

did it ever in a million years satisfy us. We want the ultimate experience or nothing. That's the drive-in, right there, buddy boy, that keeps us coming back

for more movie, and I'm more than okay with all that mushy stuff in between because I like to see the out of control fires set in those great big 

beautiful eyes of yours too. But why can't there be a pile of good enough words for that simple of an observation to light up the dragging through the corrupt streets at night survivors of the resistance? It's an emotional pull, too. You know what I

mean a thousand times over, but,even now,you just won't let yourself care for its presence in the room we share not unless I can say it to you and for only you and for you for the first time ever again on this very same day and every day thereafter. Okay, okay, okay

well, I'm trying. 

Sad, moon child, eyelids painted sea shocked green. I see it and it hurts a lot. I'm not just lost on your face, my dear satellite!Candles throwing their melted circles like burning nets made out of nothing but the ghosts of blazing fires whipping all around the clammy flickering walls like ghost dancers in love. No, naming the special thing we made between us, but a snotty questioning of its deepest intentions instead. I get it. We are not always going to be around to play this thing fully out, right here,but what about in the right now of the now we somehow shared way back then? I say we're only lost in the moment's tree bark parking lot because we stubbornly refuse to be found out

by anyone else who doesn't fit the familiar story mold from a childhood fantasy guessing board game. It's not supposed to feel any one particular way, that's what I'm told and tend to believe. Okay.You

don't need any special training to know the relief in hearing your own heart's desire coming through that front door night after night. Also good.The din doesn't fool you.It never did. It never could.I liked that about you once upon a long time ago. 

Oh, what's the absolute use of this written over nonsense coming into view between us? I don't know. But, I think, for me it's always been about your sly behind the scenes smile behind the rainbow's practical sheen like a secret stare into a more permanent view of a possible real world love where happiness happens.  In other words

I have to,my brothers,oh sisters,before it's over and done with and way, way too late to vote for making a fool out of oneself for the sake of it all.