Living on a Lifeboat

When we open up, we let Life in.
In a boat, with buffalo and goat.
It’s just a matter of ya ya yes. And the,
the more you understand the open, the more you recognize it.
The more you seek for it, the more wide your world becomes.
And Life boat becomes
less tippable,
equipped for all waters
and with goose and giraffe.

Biting the Sun

She wisked up a tornado when I let her have the clouds and the grey
She shook night so hard that it turned into day.
She then grabbed the sun and bit in the middle
and now everything’s bigger then when it was little.

It’s Not all Art

Everything isn’t art to me. It might be art to somebody else. And I respect that.
I look at a pile of rocks and I see a pile of rocks.
I haven’t trained my eye to see beauty in stuff like that.
However
When I see laundry on the line and it is blowing in the wind,
when I see a moose in the clouds or the shape of a truck my son has drawn,
it makes my heart twinkle
and I consider that feeling, art.
If something can give me feelings other than what I was feeling, it’s art.
I feel, more so than I see, art
and that’s why everything I see, is not art.

Same as Sun

Sun creaks into overdrive in another part of the earth
the remenants here slowly falling asleep

drowsing the city with it’s echoed lullabies.

Stepping slow onto a different land
dreams burst vision in our heads
and like sun, our overdrive begins.

The Wait

You are calling the world on all sites
Braving the best with your tinted lights
Begging you I am
for you to see,
It’s not you
it’s you and me. 

You are treading water with your heavy hooves
Worrying of
non existent moves
Pleading you I am,
for you to do
to stop, to stay
 be with me and you. 

For I and you to take the stage
to write our past
out in rage
shut the door and throw that world,
down the gullet of a fire pearl.

I am waiting in action,
oh me; oh my!
I’m waiting for you

for you and I.

 

Drink me Up

She is the sweet whine
that everyone complains about.
Smooth, hint of pear and
with the strong aftertaste of care.

The style you don’t need refreshed. 

She is the argument
inside your stained soul. 
Wrong. Right. A battle of your bruises
healing now, and that’s what the news is. 

This is the style your needs thirst for.

 

 

Dab my Wet Mouth,Wet

Your antelope ears and wrinkled persona!
Your grand entrance and bifocal’d leisure!
The habits of your style
are the blessing at the table.
Your hands of porcelin,
the super age of the sensory.

I am the kingdom blind
the sensible and perverse
the one who takes all the willows
willingly down to the shelter
for shelter
against
those bursts after bursts of experience.
I learn well.
And so should you.

 

 

Ready-bloom

There’s a cradle filled with hope,
and a dirty that holds soap.
There’s a window full of moon
and a sun
in ready-bloom. 

I’ll scrub the windows clean
and I’ll take one for the team.
I’ll make the bed; for what it’s worth
I’ll do my best,
not better
nor the worst. 

Hold me up to shining light
see through me and find no fight.
Shut the blinds and search my room
find nothing but
a sun in ready-bloom.