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There is little to distinguish
blinks from winks
I try, I do
because across the room
little things can mean
sweeter secrets than
text can testify.
It's beauteous not knowing everything
or anything,
really,
so why the heap of pretending
not to mention, furtive
mending
of popped seams and deflated dreams
ringing ears and silent
screams?
Last time I checked the whine
of rubber bones creaking
through days
bending to the will of my worries,
scurrying in crevices
of this mental maze,
I sat for months and prayed
to imagination, a
fictitious fabrication
that tore my feet from the dirt
in liberating
solicitation.
I spend seconds in creation
cosmos behind my eyelids,
worlds of honey smoke and little kids
where there's more green than
gray,
my jeans are frayed, and I can stick my toes in the sand every
day.
Hills are for rolling down, laughing,
heads are for
scratching,
beds weren't meant to be made,
and socks are for mixing
and matching.
Expect nothing!
Put your hands in the dirt and grow
something:
May it be green, teal, aquamarine...
or lay on your back
and scream
and when you're spent, lie silent and remember:
it's all
just a dream.
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