The undercurrents of society flow,
Like dreaming fog lights caught in the undertow.
A lone warrior fights only with himself,
So that soon one day he can be put on the shelf,
Ready to be picked at the drop of a hat,
Sadly misused I know not what is said.
Forty two mistletoe drive is where my baby lies,
Under the shade of my boondocks ride,
So long and farewell my princess belle,
No two times go together very well.

And meeting not far from shore
The ships collided, but did not sink
And instead they merged into one
And melted into each other
With a rainbow glow that shone
Like a thousand suns in the dead of night
And expanded in volume a hundred times or more
Until exploding into countless billions of winged creatures
Like butterflies flapping and fluttering and flying up high
And into the sky they rose as one
Gigantic cloud that split into three streams
And one stream flowed from the sky into you
And one stream flowed from the sky into me
And the final stream flowed directly into
The ancient fig tree
And in silence sitting we absorbed them all
Into our hearts they flew and they lifted us
High above the ground and high above the tree
And we flew for many miles and for many years
And at last we took our places
At opposite ends of the globe
Our unity unfolded, though destined to return

Towards the ancient fig tree
That stood on the precipice
Of an unending sea,
With the sun rising high above
The three sailing ships
There cast three shadows,
Though their colours were ever changing
And shimmering within the rolling waves.
And we saw, as they approached
Their shapes transform,
As though imitating some strange symmetry
Within our own heads,
The ocean of our minds.
We were still;
The waves rolled on;
And the ships came in to the shore
Where we sat.

Sunday’s shadow leaves Monday looking back in vain
At what possibilities that she mistook for fame,
And left her sneezing at the chosen one’s pain,
Handed down to him by those he can’t contain.

Fall freely blossom bird.
Your thunder yet is sounding
Upon the rolling hills
That divide the meadow.

The gardens live on
And grow though they stand
A million miles from home,
Or what we once did call.

Spin child, spin, upon higher grounds.
They cling to one another, with such atomic force
And their hydrogen hands, held in hand
For the world to see, though not set free.

Summer’s clown cries softly beneath his smile.
Not one sees his deep longing,
His tiresome glow,
Below his painted skin.

For many long years we sat, in the shade
Under the branches
Of a vast and ancient fig tree
That stood
On the edge of a sea-facing cliff,
With a stiff wind which swept the side
Of the cliff faces and caught the leaves
Like a million small sails
In a north-westerly breeze.
And in the shade where we
Waited with baited breath for the
Three wandering ships they say were
Lost at sea long ago
To appear with destined symmetry,
Mastheads rising from a fine line horizon,
Sending signals to shore
Of their shared destiny.
And we, with unfolding hearts had seen
Their intended course and vector
Towards the ancient fig tree

The story of a girl
She dives deep
Diamond eyes searching for treasures
Far below and well out of reach
Of any mortal hands
But for hers outstretched
A beckoning begins
A beacon from the shore
A shining light

don't mention the pain
what service would that gain?
a simple cheesecake to share
to see if this goes anywhere
over the mountain, over the hill
back to the animals on the window sill
which leads me to here
in which she's sitting there
and she's fully aware, without a care
and this table top seems so vastly beyond compare
to any I've seen before through mind's open door
be it fiction or folklore
that delivers these visions of her form
and ****** contour, direct to my head
now beside her in bed, where days I have rested
a change in the weather, in flocks and in feathers
high tide in the seminal waters of the heart
subsiding with tall tales of false starts
but the rise rolls on again as it has
through thick & through thin, a quivering theremin
and so we begin, the song, the story, the count in
to counterfeit original sin
(you know what happened last time)