Patterns (day 2161)

When every part of patient patterns
Seem to fit inside the other
A symbiotic matrimony, of sorts,
Fills us up each day
Like sun that orbits around and around
And the moon, just biding its time
Mycelia strings together the dots
Connecting you to me
And sun to earth and rain to mud
And seed to harvest it too!
So down we go, deep inside
To sprout one million times amore.

The Boxer (day 1933)

You were a boxer
Every Thursday night
After Big Jim’s Saloon
Took a bottle and you
Out to a cobblestone night.
A muffled mind with intention,
Fireworks covered in mud,
And a slow slur that wound up
Like Roadrunner
Walking a tightrope,
The top rope
Of a dark, four cornered ring.
You liked the big city
Because your slow down
Never coincided with a dead end.
Your betting days
Flashed jackpot on your bedroom wall:
Red, green, and yellow.
And your highschool sweetheart
Hung alone on peeling paper
That crackled back at you
As you walked naked
From your bedroom
To a comfortable routine
You knew so well.

Asked to be An Angel Again (day 1813)

I was asked to become a guardian
Down low, down low, in a bottom of mud.
Too late, I said,
Coughing and excusing myself;
Toxicity had taken control
Of my asthma, uncontrollably
Letting my lungs flank
Sides of this yellow pole.
I smiled nicely
At the man who said something,
But to him, I wasn’t listening,
I was to busy snoring.
Excuse me, I said,
Under my breath
And a fly came and landed
Above my head,
So I moved on again, up high, up high.

A Horticulturalists Dream (day 1161)

Summer air and little drops
That puddle jump night to sleep.
From every lair come out great worms
Slithering through fresh mud.
Slugs depart on epic journeys
Across deep dark blacktop oceans.
And as all things growing
Most desire
Freshness from great rains,
Morning brings what can be called
A horticulturalists most desirable dream.

Dreaming of Singing (day 1100)

A range of extremes rushing through my heart
Billows and swells my emotions alive.
So I, all exposure; wind at my neck,
Look to the distance with dreamy eyes sans regret.
Moments that crawl deep in mud
Shaking mystery free from it’s longing and clutching grasp.
A sad song sung alone, echoing off towering cliffs.
A sweet song sung on a bellowing clarinet.
Could you lie to me just a little bit longer?
Rush to my head on a caffeinated high.
Your sprouts in my garden are light in my eyes,
And singing alone’s become quite obscene.

Ain’t Comin’ Baby Runnin’ (day 512)

You’ve got the look of a prowler with your leathers on so tight
Bounded by desire and your whistles blowing right tonight
I’ve locked myself into this room and I ain’t comin out
Run baby run, I ain’t the right breed for your sweet soul
Lavished in roses and smelling like the clean springs water
I’ve run through the wrong parts of town
I’ve held the wrong kind of jobs
I’ve pissed off the wrong kind of men
Now, I’m just a two-bit gangster
Rolling around in the mud on a cold winters day
Don’t rub my roots baby
Don’t come her rubbing my roots