brazen mouth, shining full
of glory and ego and possibility,
spit your message out now
and leave the hand-wringing
for the castrated puppeteers.
mouth to hands, make the work
that must be done a golden chore:
make the future a tidal basin
of dreaming, and wade in
knee-deep, open-eyed, hand in hand.
emboldened mind, with hands
on keys and words in mouths,
boiling over with silver ideas
to burnish the future into
something presentable to children;
destroy the urge to hesitate,
prove your unbridled path!
lines will be drawn, and those
who cannot follow this new light
are not wrong: they are your
foundation, the legs upon which
your swinging hips and swiveled
shoulders depend. they are
your resource and your rock,
and you are the sea foam
pushing against the solid shore.

i hear you in ageless ways,
in fleeting and passing moments.
i hear you in the low range of
soprano trumpets, in happy screams
of curly-haired children, in
the inaudible hiss of my leaking
sink faucet. i hear you in art,
cubism especially (you are all motion)
and i hear you in mondrian, all
colored inside the lines. i hear
you in the wax they put on apples
in the grocery store so people will
buy them (aesthetics are everything)
and i hear you in the stray wheel
on the bottom of the shopping cart.
i hear your voice in the heartthrob
of a passing helicopter, in the
jackhammer that works on the road
between me and the highway. i hear
you in my sleep, but not in my
nightmares. i hear you in the rhythm
of walking feet, i hear you early
in the morning when it is grey outside
and the geese are still sleeping.
i hear you daily, i crave you nightly,
i dream you constantly, i want you simply.

and in the day, we hardly learn
to stay the hands, to still the burn
to purge the dreams that must be blind
or else a sweeter home they'd find.
the small, the weak, the perfect prey
you put your heart on full display:
he turns and sees, he picks you up
to save you from the world corrupt.
the sun continues shining now,
you learn to wear the kingly frown.
at home, at work, the hours pass
and take their toll inside the glass.

romeo, romeo, romeo.
juliet is trash, and wishes she were trashed.
to drown the sin of thought in liquor,
to bury the pain of love in stupor.
juliet can take herself to bed,
and juliet can wake up alone,
and juliet can get married the next morning
to a stranger she barely knows.
she may be void, so long as she is docile;
she may be empty, so long as she is willing.
juliet, you have a task
and you must perform it well.
to smile and sing and teach him to laugh,
to teach him the ways of your homely craft.
if you think you are so clever, girl,
then you will accomplish all this and be glad
for the chance to have done it.

i wish i had never, i wish i had never, i wish i had never.
everything is a grey area, and everything is a blur.
if i hadn't, would you love me now? you could love me anyways?
the glass of water is full, is half empty, is barren.
i would break all the rules again if i had to.
i miss the damp clay sand, the cold foam on the shoreline.
too many lines were written without your consent, i know.
this far in the novel, can you forgive my transgressions?
as i forgive those who trespass against me.
in ten, twenty, fifty years, i will look back quietly.
the months are long, coins and dollars at a time.
there is hyperemotion where there is no consensus of emotion.

and in the night, he softly breathes
and nowhere else does love conceive
to keep the ancient young at heart
or keep the lovers years apart.
his pulse is slow, his mind is still
i watch and pray and take my fill
before the sun takes him away
and steals my happiness by day.
the heart enslaves the lungs, the blood
that fills his veins, and in a flood
love claims my dreams and i release
my conciousness to love's increase.
so now we two do softly sleep
and seek each other in the deep
where all is quiet, dark and pure
and no more lack does love endure.

a plaintive note, the ringing call of tiny
sparrows, heard across the field. their mouths
open in eager voice: come sing, carouse,
let freedom fly with us! and poor, shy me,
i cannot tell the birds why i can't fly:
for lack of wings, or heart, or maybe air.
my feet don't leap, or skip about, don't dare
to even dance. i hear the sparrow's cry
and dread the heartache that ensues. her breast
is full of gloried sky, mine full of weight
and heat. so fresh from urban pace and light,
it's strange to feel at peace: the world at rest,
complacent in its oval path. her mate
joins from above, and i can't trace their flight.

the more i learn, the less i have to say
about the past. i learned shame fast, and kept
my peace for years: i worked, i learned, i met
my goals, except for one. i watched us pay
our global debt of fears and death, ensconced
in selfish guilt; too young, too poor, too shy
to talk beyond the towers, to see the sky
as more than entry point. but where i lost
my joy, i now have found my pride: the time
has come for me, for mine, for us! the young
respond, both call and reply: yes, we can.
the shame of years is gone, we draw the line
between the 3rd and 4th: our hopes were hung
for progress, peace, and hope. yes, we can.