Don't break my elephant, bitches.

nine new CDs, little guitar, blues harp, six packs of american swiss rolls. there were no survivors.

poetry is motion.

like the ocean has motion.

forced by the moon

tides and waves

boats and ships

and cargo and people and animals

move

by 

motion.

stars sing.

if you listen.

(quietly)

they WILL

tell you their secrets

like when 

and why

sometimes where

but never what

thats part of the game that you play

with 

the stars

lying on

your back 

on the cold concrete

and wind is mellowing through the bits of sand about you 

with the sweet fragrance of the sky mingling with you

(you're not very good at small talk)

but all the same it feels good

it is warm but not

it is cold,   but not

in between 

mellow

melodies

mingle

meeting

mellow

fellows

yet

you

yearn

you

yak

in between.

and then the sky

there are many stars

you try to count

you can only make it to ten,

but you know there are more

maybe twenty!

you see the stars in pairs

it looks they are all happy

up their hanging around upstairs

some twinkle and flirt with you

but you know there is another star

out there in the dark and blue

the sky like an ocean of cliche

so many things i could say

but if i did say them to you

i don't know what you would do

yell or scream of just be plain mean

and i could talk i would

but i can't

so we still aren't understood. 

As night embraces

and the sun paces

for more time on this earth

the fire in the hearth

and some hearts of flame

some of cold winter and same old same

I pray for you.