ready set here we go again

i'm thinking
that it's going to take longer than expected
to change this world
and that i will need to take time
out of my busy schedule
playing tetris and listening to music
to learn how.

ah change.
you've become so much my enemy
that i'm afraid to put out my hand
and shake yours, vigorously,
until we can agree

(our differences have changed)


summer. mm.
fruity.
juicy.
sunny.
nummy.
i will lay in your grassy arms
and sneeze my love for you.
and i will love you even after
your first fruits have fallen.
and until all your fruits have fallen.
i'll secrete them away
and kiss your living trees
with their sticky scent.
mm. summer.


the Old Forest is in my backyard.
and I can see Buckland through it.
I'm nine again, and I'm carrying a basket
to collect mushrooms and nostalgia.
(both delicacies and loved well
by hobbits and me.)


hey you squrriel
outside my window
stealing nuts and my dreams
let's be friends
and you can show me how to climb trees
and i will show you how to think.
soon we'll teach each other everything
and girl and squirel can write a book
about how holy god we're all quite the same.
(though squirel is still best at climbing trees)


sim.ple.y.
me. not.
com.plex.
oh.no.

i think i'm kind of an angst machine

i think of you the most on bad days
when falling into the comfort of your arms
was easiest, when your voice and lips made it all better.
today and yesterday though
when i conjured your face up
and saw the pimples on your arm
it is only more sadness that i find.
i'm a collector, i think, and you are my collection.
you don't sell well on ebay.

miss you.
never though two words would mean so much.
miss you.
all the stress of life and living and wanting
secretly
to not live
is wrapped up in them
like a world made of yarn balls.
the cat bats at them and spreads them across the floor
and i cry, because i am cliche and angsty and i remember too well
what it is to be happy.

it comes like a pow,
knowledge that knocks the wind out of me
so fast.
so i fall back into the arms of disability.
and love it furiously.
i will save them
because i cannot save myself.

so bad poetry walks into a bar. and the bartender says "bad joke."

all is well in babylon
glamorous exteneded metaphors
and slightly peturbing language
uncomprehnesible to man
does not a classic make.

it is in the passion--
the driving force and action
the aches and pains of the author
fed like baby food to the characters
and when you the reader
find the passion unresistable
and give in to its murmering sway

then something brilliant is born
and all is well in babylon.

facts
facts are as slimy as lies
they wriggle out of fingers
and slip between toes
they cannot stick because
they are afraid of the feeling
of staying.

facts are no better than lies.
cold and restless as a convict
just escaped from the feds
they don't want you to know anything
they can't tell you.

facts and lies
are only as different
as our minds will make them be.

to nick, and autism
i'll hand shake you at of your world, boy.
no matter how many times you say bye bye bye
and expect me never to return
i'll come back
and call you friend.
why would i abandon you in your world
when i'm this alone in mine?

don't you see?
love is the language we speak
before we can talk.
and hate is the language we learn
when too much talking has been done.
and language is nothing more than
feeling that responds to action.
and action . . .

well.

that's the complicated bit.