I write to find my tranquil soul,
to grant myself a song,
a debris field to lay down in,
to stake my claim to love,
and its fluttering moons,
       echo my violent dreams, hear me cry,
       be a flippant little dog, arf, arf,
sneak into and inhabit another's soul,
and impress strangers with how cool I am.
can't stop
till I pour out pages of insurrection,
till I find notes on love's sweet underpinnings,
or am philosophically suave, erudite, lost.

pretty ladies, the afterlife,
a roaring cold sea, my simple murmurs,
rambunctious weddings,
culturally crazed voices,
tasty herbs or kids singing beneath a streetlight
wet my appetite.
I'll honor pomp and circumstance too.

I'm simply old plumage
plucked clean trying to put down my stories.
cool metaphors and slick lick openings
are a must. odd, delicious syllabic twists too.
I fit my poems into a rain proof bag.
carry them around.
they're piled high,
scruffy, sumptuous,
and unabashedly shrewd,
I make them into mouth watering hot soup,
nourishing hot soup.
though they give me stomach pain.
why? don't know. I need a shrink, I guess.
I'm no stranger to love and all it pickles,
its luxurious kisses, sweet vigils,
enlarged moons, migraines, lakeside peace,
beauty, pointless fights and steam heat.
I comb her hair, eat pretzels, ice cream
and get fat.
don't we all?
love - much like a beautiful postage stamp.
picturesque, highly sought after,
housed in a fresh, colorful coat
that can cross oceans.

I love dogs. who doesn't?
penguins are cool.
I make Chinese dragons fall asleep in a liquid phrase
that burns a page.
some mornings my soul creeps around my eyes.
that's when my best poems strike.
that's when I'm pollinated, tearing at the page,
guilt free.
that's when I want to comb and brush away the bad.
that's when I swear I was born from a leaky faucet.
that I'm a complex pimple.
I have pictures of pigs swimming in the mud
on my all my walls.
I want to see them fly.
paid a lot for those photos.
I, who laughs childlike,
who likes a fresh blue sky,
who has a girlfriend,
who will dance for a kiss,
who's true to himself,
who's been wrung from fine whiskey
and pure cornstarch.
no, I never took a Rorschach.