"Note #9"

Slanted lanes,

of foam or stars are familiar sights in

The truth of myth. 

First the land and last the sound of

White! Light!

Help the young,

And the sand is wet to the touch,

With something denser:

Water is caresses, kisses in winter,

And this is life unbound.

Life! Unbound!

Left to the torrents, left unchecked

In the spatial... Confines;

The livelihood of swarms of people just

Stung with the love bug of love bugs!

The life blood of life bloods is seeping onto wet sand

With the only words of wisdom being sung

Over and over again,

As if the heavens themselves would part for

Another round, an encore of more dead men.

The world, the world indeed, would pay dearly for another

Truth-bringer, another one to own...

But back to life!

Life is last in thought!

Life is grand,

Grand as the stillborn's is,

Petty as the bigot's!

Who is the rightful owner of it all?

The right to live by destruction is inherent!

Inherent in the hearts of stars, stars cannibalized

For hearts, hearts of stars are worth the world

And more.

For there to be more there must be

Wanting, aching, pining.

Searching for the golden heart in words is like

W i s h i n g on a star;

Hearts on hearts may be stacked many deep,

But they all bleed

Light