I preferred the chas and Dave chanthttps://youtu.be/G5goISKPSH8
titans.they don’t tell you thatone day,sisyphus just let the rock roll downand collect his bodylike dust.they don’t tell you that you can still walkwith holes in your legsand you can still lovewhen your heart has already been ripped open.they don’t tell you thatyou are 75% of an oceanthat is six miles deepand eats ships alive,75% of the water that shapes canyons,75% of the rain that drowned the earthfor forty days and nights.they don’t tell you thatyour body is made of the same carbonas starsand diamonds.they don’t tell you thatthere is a fire burning inside of youor that your bones are stronger than steelor that the things that fuel youfuel tigers, too.the greeks and romans wrote stories abouthow strong you wereand you are icarus,and you died laughingbecause they didn’t tell youhow beautiful the world really waseven as it was swallowedby the waves.
Retraction of ChlorophyllLonger nights, and shorter days,Sinking towards the horizon,the sun stretches itself againstpulsating veins retractingfrom margins to petioleto stems unmasking green from orange to gold, to vermilion
CaliforniaMy father was San Francisco and my mother, the Pacific;at five I was in love with nine-lane highways, the scent ofeucalyptus pressed between my fingers, yellow parchmenthills crumpled up under the eye of the sun. If I had a sunsetto myself I would curl up on a park bench like the hippies do,and eavesdrop on the sea lions’ bedtime conversations.Alcatraz never quite unbarred me and yet I have foundfreedom in hills steep as my shoulders; I know that I ambeautiful even in the rain because I have kissed the smokeof Berkeley and tasted her on my teeth. I was born todangle my legs over Golden Gate Bridge and of course,of course I would jump – not to fall, but to fly.
LoveLoveIt's something in all of us,different but still the same.It's a way of expression;some times normal,well some times strange.It's a feeling that you have;sometimes happy,or sometimes sad.It's a curse,or a blessing.It makes you lose yourself,or helps you discover who you truly are.It's something that will always happen,whether like it or not.But something that can't be controlled,or be freed.But always be happy,that you can love.
The Season CycleI - PyreIt is getting coldthese days. The limbsare running shy on leaves.Late dawn unveils a crisp world.Curling shreds of trees moundon the earth, shattering under our feet.I should be in a sweater, orinside, warm in fleece folds,or outside, raking up thebeautiful carcasses.So many incarnate flamespool around my stoop, then fadeto brown, or dust, or both.II - AshesEverything that livedis worn from a yearof exuberance.The colors are whispersunder powdered remains.They are all we have of fire now.All crystallizes, congeals,evaporates into grey.It owns a certain timbrethat sounds like the tenor bellsof eternity. They sing only one note,and this is it. III - KindlingWatery sepia hasowned nature for too long now.Hard angles melt into organicshapes, arcs and swirls.Tremulous petals yawn to lifeand crumble into a bedwhere seeds fall, quivering,for the first and last time.Newborn designs press their nosesthrough the loam.&
the lion's tooth grave of pragueThe sidewalk is dyed green againwith dandelion blood:white wispy limbs litter the cobblestonealongside the scars of bony stems.I am not a witness,only a passerby. I standin awe but not in sorrowof the departed dandelions,their souls crushed under street mower hell.I pull a survivor from the grassand breathe to strip it of its fleshso that its wish is granted:to not be left alone.
While It BurnsWhy does a moth flyDirectly into the flame?Perhaps its captivatedBy the beauty to be foundIn such pure recreationOr perhapsIt flies so surelyInto its own deathBecause it believesThe flames of rebirthWill allow it a second chanceAt metamorphosis,And perhaps that this time...It will appear a butterfly.Perhaps this is the only thingIt can force itself to believeWhile it burns.
Swedish Elkhound-LitShe tugged on my fur like I was a teddy bear,Her tiny fingers curled in my thick gray mane.My fluffy tail is her blanket of warmth.She laughs and giggles at everything I do.And I laugh at the joy she so easily receives.As she rests on her mother's lap to sleep-My master and I slip from the cabins nest.Evening approaches as dusk settles in the air.My ears pricked for the slightest of sounds,I keep my nose pointed down- for the scent of elk.It fills my nostrils as if they stood before me.A bark emanates from deep within me,Then I dash across the snow-covered terra.My master followed at a distance, trusting my senses.My prey cannot hide its tracks along the forest floor.And before they know it I am upon them.The bull turns to face me to protect his does.He will not fear me nor do I fear him as he charges.I dodge his antlers with the swiftness of a ghost,I sink my teeth into his hind leg then release quickly.He calls out in pain as he rings his head around.'BANG! BA
Don't Hate the RayDon't hate the rayIt only did what nature told it toIt was grumpy and felt threatenedSo it took the only action that it knewDon't hate the rayWhat it did was only natures wayThe ray is still a beauty of the seaA creature to be respected and conservedBy folks like you and meBut most importantlyYou'll find this to be truePleaseDon't hate the rayBecause Steve wouldn't want us to