It is what it is - I'm affirming right now
I am who I am - none can disallow.
The audience is fickle - I don't seek their praise.
It's not worth a nickel. I'll live my own days.

It is what it is - though never the same,
I am who I am - I  make my own game.
Moments are changing, perpetually new.
Thoughts rearranging - artistically view.

I am who I am - according to me.
It is what it is...

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Our meet-cute was just poetry
you followed mine - and I, yours
we swapped numbers on MySpace
you texted me with an attachment,
a video of you in a black dress creating
to Dido's "White Flag,"
your winsome playfulness
captivated mine
Though you left this shuttle in 2016
but I am forever encountering you.

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we should not allow,
or so *they* say
because an infernal law
prevents difference

and yet to rebel
with a screeching yell
is just the same
it's not a recent game

do we peculiarly fit(?)
the used mold awaits
unquestioning agreement
but what if we refuse
to falsely say the same rhyme
that *they* recite in line?

reject us they must
because the format is
foreign
our feather...

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A poem of draining life
was Dickinson's delight.
She once wrote,
A poem is a poem if
hearing it
makes all strength to leave;
& puts our nature in a freeze,
like removing the cranial cap
with an emotional thunderclap.

One day I heard such a poem,
like nothing heard before,
chilling my blood and bone.
Sliced to the very core.

Silenced to a statue,
I had to pull off the road,
it su...

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She is a crone,
a flowing vapor,
an invisible river--
Too fast? Too slow?
What she is? I don't know.

...but I'm caught in her tow
and must go with the change
perpetually to grow in age
sands through a glass
either gold dust or waste

A tree of possibility
her leaves transform seasonally
to fertilize the hope of summer dreams

A personal providence?
Or a bad joke of chance?
...

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My ass is getting dirty with the black soil I'm now seated on, and I don't care because I found the portal to the path that I discovered last night. I had to see if it would have the identical enchantment in the morning as it did when I danced under the moonbeams and became one with the evening shadows--

About 9:30AM, I set out and readily found the path – it's an old Amish buggy path, a series...

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Will you ever love the one behind your eye?
Promote your own voice?
Decide to restrain imitation?

Write the drops of the day,
Recall your trashed diaries.

Drifting in every direction
we flower, the ranges call-- permit the beach,
the earth, the islands.

Find the nature of sunshine,
not its reverberation--
for we evaporate like the morning

While dreaming the faraway road.
D...

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