There is

another way to play with all that is

that doesn't involve killing for profit. I believe that, don't you? There is

always a much kinder response to the failing  

dawn of secret night. Dancers know the power of this beautiful all encompassing

raiment. There is a good enough chance every

day simply because of the amazing swirling of atoms everywhere. There's this written

monument between us now. I bring that up

simply because it's another fit of kisses coming your way. Don't wait. There's

a river that is mightier than all the

tortured hate crying on the pitiful worlds. It runs in all four directions

at once and delivers its source in every

lasting drop, rain or shine. There's a turning inside that winds you up.

It'll come. You'll know that tide by the

free notion of its being home no matter where you are, the genuine calming,

knowing fortune it ghostly brings through any wall's fat head. It's

happening. Fast rising off any ground with arms open wide. There is a

breeze. It is spoken. I am but one

of the many ways. There is a personal key dreamed about or imagined in you. 

Bonus poems:

(The Sad) Gentlemen Write

not even a

little disguised poetry by default, peer through

the holy hands

of the mugging

sky,however

silent and sweet

they do wish to appear on the subject, don't scream

or shift their heads

at the remains

of animals,

or odd plants, have

already rung the bells for iridescent night, that's

the saddest part, have

too great a thirst

for hollowing

out the places

that might have seen happiness, stepping off the world, stop

heavy as plums

to rocks below.

by Darryl Price