Light barely drips
through the cracks in the blinds
and the dust floats
back and forth
like snow falling
onto unchristened ground.

I want to yell.
To reach my hands toward
heaven
and scream.

Because we were running.

We rushed our hands
through the grain
and splashed
in the puddles of Spring.
We were light,
glowing and weightless,
as we drifted through freeways
and back-roads.
I followed that river
that flows in you
like a melodic composition.

Now, my hands
reach upward at things not seen.
My feet are motionless,
while your river's current
carries you forward.

The dust settles without a sound.

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the Mississippi
down the border
of Mississippi.
The girls with
the purple party beads
and the sax buskers
on the brown streetcars
drink through their
Mardi Gras,
down streetcars named Desire.

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the slow jams
from the Apollo
during Locke's Renaissance.
The young gangsters
down every block
drop their
fists sticks knives guns
and shake to albee.

Holy Spirits
move through
vast cathedrals
and through
empty pews.
The zealous hearts
and the corrupt voices
all drink
and listen
to the voice
of the serpent.

The waves
collided with one another.
A genesis, in grief and ashes,
seemingly outside
the gates of hell.

The screams
of new birth
suspended me
in the air.
As thick as tree branches;
as crooked as their twigs;
they fastened around my hands,
and I soared high above
the disharmony.

Wavering, incomplete.

My life
flashed before my eyes
and I saw you
standing amidst a red sunrise.
"Don't wait," you said.

"Don't wait."

The world of my spirit
was freed from the shackles of my flesh

and the skies were reborn.

The choir girls on rooftops sing
songs of thanksgiving in
harmonious gleam
while the children dance
in vibrant gyrations
underneath the olive trees.

A fire burns while people cheer and chant,
and folk songs flutter like ash.
The sparks fly as burnt wood collapses
and the king takes his throne.

He addresses his court
with eager voice
that echoes across the fields
and all eyes and ears are keenly fixed
on his majesty.

He speaks:
"My people, my friends,
my enemies, my lovers -
from all lands far and wide -
will you open your eyes
and see your live like this?

There is no bloodshed or death
and I can see your lungs expand with each breath.

Now, please fill your cups
with the strongest of wines
and let music ring
with the loudest of chiming.
Let peace fill your souls
and love cloud your minds.

Lay down your swords,
pax et concordia
for love is the strongest of wards."

When rain falls
it arrives like
an army charging down a hillside,
beating their fist against their shields.
Or it arrives like
tears from a father's eyes
as he opens his arms and says
"Welcome home, son."

When rain falls
it is greeted by
open umbrellas and rubber boots.
Or it is greeted by
children with eyes closed
and faces toward the skies
as drops fall on their tongues.

When rain falls
it is caught by
rooftops, gutters, and windshields.
Or it is caught by
the eyelashes of two lovers
saying hello again
after ages of goodbyes.

When rain falls
it lands on
tree leaves
who carry it to their roots.
Or it lands on
cracks in the sidewalk
and encourages new life to burst forth.

When rain falls
it sounds like
the rushing rivers
and the tides breaking on the shorelines.
Or it sounds like a prayer gently whispered
to ears patiently listening.

When rain falls
its promises are protected
by the guard of a rainbow.

When rain falls
its promises are protected
by the guard of a rainbow.

The weathervanes
swirl snow into shimmering spirals.
The trees,
in slow rebirth,
retrogress to barren skeletons.
The cold leeches the green
from the emergent grass.

I perch atop wire farm fences
to rest my wings, to mend broken feathers;
the wind moves silence amidst the cold,
for my voice is void of song.

I see a flock flutter in the sky,
their call beckoning my flight to be one with theirs;
our voices to be one as we sing
songs of hopeful blessing
amidst nature's dissonance,
and chimes will resound from porches
and deer will drink from running waters
as if nothing has moved backward at all.

I will have a new song to sing,
as clouds break, revealing the splendor
of divine daylight.

I'm gonna wear
my weathered cardigans
and be swallowed by the pack
of Seattle commutes
with my vinyl records in one hand,
a guitar in the other,
and a backpack full of
J. Kerouac and C. Bukowski
and R. Adams and L. Cohen.

I gonna live
off of the San Francisco Bay saltwater
and the bummed cigarettes outside
of bars that play nicotine music
to my ears.

I'm gonna sleep
on the ground in front of cookie-cutter houses
with their fence posts painted white.
I'll feel my psyche strum its last chord
and soon I'll be gone
without a sound.

I'm gonna die
in a new town where nobody knows my name.
I'll be a Chicago artist
full of New York poetry,
a Great Britain romantic
full of Alameda Victorian architecture,
or a Nebraska idiot
full of Midwest ambition.