we sit and we think to ourselves,
why can’t there be peace?
why can’t there be love when there’s is already so much of it?
why can’t we as citizens not of this country
but as citizens of the world come together and love?
hell, why can’t we stay apart if we don’t?
i mean, we do it all the time anyway.
we burn bridges.
we say goodbyes.
we erase old friends from our lives.
it is but part of life; of growing.
as we grow, we sometimes grow apart.
but in growing apart,
why can we not remain in love?
why does true love not conquer all, as we’ve been taught?
why must we drop bombs?
why must we carry guns?
why must we depict ourselves as wholly apart
when really we have just said a goodbye;
what is the point of warring in our personal lives?
what is the point of war at all?
i mean, people die anyway, don’t they.
what is the point of all of this.
how can one not be antiwar?
for to be pro-war is to be anti-love.
what a strange, inhuman thing, this fighting; this killing.
live in cliches.
love to be loving.
stop this madness.
it’s just a little something that makes you angry
it’s a story told with no ending
it’s a passion you wield
it’s a diary entry
it’s all for something if not for nothing at all
it’s a hangnail
it’s a toothache
it’s a hangover
it’s the rails
it’s the train rides
it’s the flying
it’s the holding
it’s the dear
it’s a makeout
it’s the morning after
it’s a world without stars
it’s a sky packed with clouds
it’s a summertime rain
it’s the fog at dawn
it’s water down the drain
it’s a bold accusation
it’s a cigarette, smoked
it’s the cold
it’s a blanket
it’s the heat
it’s the air conditioning
it’s a love that’s barely visible
it’s the glasses which help you to see
it’s laying in the grass
out to sea
sit by yourself and wait for the bookshelf to come falling; watch as the stories flow toward the floor and read. there is no passion worth your teeth. there is no point to catching things which are thrown; are thrown at you and me. and walk next to me. there is no conversation. there is only the silence between us. there are only the lakes and the ponds. there are only the stones tossed into the water. there are only the ripples which move from that point and the waves crashing on the shore. and so we stroll and so we don’t forget those nights spent strolling or trolling from bar to bar, from sea to sea, from branch to branch, from tree to tree. and if you’re alone, call. and if you don’t it’s over. but only if you think again of someone, somewhere, off and bent like fathers teaching languages, dead, or preachers preaching just to make rent or writers writing about love and trends like it’s only a mirror reflecting. it’s more than you or i, you see. it’s more like dancing in the streets. it’s more like washing clothes or feet; linens. sleep.
go outside and look toward the sky and see how the clouds roll by.
sit underneath a tree and watch as the leaves blow;
the branches sway;
the trunks stay put and all.
and wonder around the city thinking of a girl
or a boy
wait for the night to fall and go out walking,
your eyes gazing toward the stars
trying to trace their shapes
it’s like the season of the witch
closing in on summer
you’ve been feeling alright
and still can’t catch up to the world, spinning
so you dive into the fog
and swim through the night
as you collapse into tears
without knowing why
without wondering how it came about
and you shudder
and somehow, someway
you find today is ending
stand beneath the rain
and feel it running down your cheeks
you never feel the same
after a summer storm
so dance amidst the fog
and go running past the drains collecting water
and be just another passerby
to the wind and stars and sky
the moon hides
as the sun goes down
singing songs of rivers flowing down a mountainside
and watching while you calm yourself with cigarettes
and walking along the riverbed
until you reach the bottom
cut and bruised with landing
the thunder claps and for some reason it holds true
that there’s something if not nothing on the dark side of the moon
the clouds cover the stars
yeah, they’re falling like rain
drenching the coast to coast
living and breathing
and feeling the most
and there is something about the darkness of the nighttime
that makes me drift into the dawn like birds just soaring on
and the china breaks like the glass it is and helps me
to wake up from counting sheep and tripping, holy
forget about the times you held like water, lord
and be a wild and distant soul
on the corner of the street where you’d been sleeping
I am only what you heard
and like the only thing that matters is
what person makes you
a little closer to the fallen leaves
trudge through the underbrush and set up no lines to by brought forth from an actor who wishes and whines like a child who didn’t get candy at the store. don’t you know to be building? don’t you know to be cautious. don’t you know you are delving down deep into packages claimed at the station; the train was pulled in and and the engineer was racing to the edge of the crowd, there was a doctor who proudly took on the bold mission to cure some schmuck in the dining car who choked on his steak because his bites were too big and who, lately, wasn’t even eating meat.
dig through the garbage and find what you lost or be creeping down boulevards looking for a park to fall asleep in, by the pond, on the banks of a river, so bright and wide.
be ecstatic about something.
let your passion run wild.