Tuesday, March 20, 2012


this isn't a poem
no rolling layered missive steeped in
archaic love myths & quantum quarks of missing
i just want to be 8
living in a house the width & breadth of the universe
and a basement for playhouses & poker
long white golden hair & green eyes
captivated by Disney animation, books & rock-n-roll
standing on the bed & singing for you
oblivious of hours . . yet soaked in the cries of the shallow & empty
Peter Max days & Led Zeppelin nights
And if I could have that blue bicycle . . war will cease & Bobby Ellis will come home
I will grow up to be an artist . . a puppeteer . .
and every day will taste like
a indigo-blue-blossom-spring-solstice

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