Hello Apollo 13 (For Coyotes in Space)

Houston, you've got a problem.

You've got the horizontal covered

but the vertical is all askew ...

Are we reading? Likely not.

Our capsule has gone cold

since the Major kicked out

the front door window

and our view of your blue world

is cracked and the light is scattered.

Could you please explain

what that stream of smoke is

from the coast of Southern California?

Our instruments indicate the place

is unsuitable for landing.

It comes down to this:

Why the hell did you send us out here

when you knew completely fully damn well

this great abyss isn't even friendly

for penguins or polar bears?

We demand an answer

before we allow you

to bring us back.

Nobody told the retrograde of Mercury

 it's no longer in force.

It appears your sphere

is going off the golf course.

These times demand a certain clarity

and all we can hear on our horn is clatter,

as if the mind doesn't matter

and gravity is up for debate

and the whole Earthbound sideshow

is frozen over in hate.

So please don't delay,

our cabin is iced in, buried in snow,

and we'd all be better off

pointing our controls

to the heart of the sun*,

as we hope for the trickle down,

the hydrating taste of icicles as they melt,

the warming hands of love

in your polyester-made Chinese

beaver pelt.

*Yes, I completely lifted this line from early period Pink Floyd.

RESILIENCE (For the Disappointed)

You have fought to now,

and though now may not

be fighting for you,

your energy is eternal,

and so, there is nothing to fear,

the flesh and the bone and the tears

are the witness to the Creator

of your cares and woes,

so don't ever be afraid to speak out,

to let the thunder roll,

the passion and the patrol

as you walk this world,

stuck within the illusion of gravity,

stuck in the tenebrous web

where justice or just one friend alludes you,

with all of the manacles they attempt

to put on your mind, which they will never

be able to read, your one last truth,

as you pluck the feathers from your mouth,

the stale taste of death and lost love,

as you run the ever increasing treadmill of acquisition,

as you can barely see in front of you, know this:

the circle is there for you to step out of,

and so you are both timeless,

and not of this Earth.

Looking for God Both Inside and Out (For Joan of Arc)

Meanwhile, at the Gothic Art show,

where the library of Alexandria

has failed to burn down,

due to better security

and more available stone,

the question gets asked,

but there is always a chance

for a follow-up question

and the mysteries are further

along, which is to say, more science,

less so magic ... but why roil of crosses?

Why is it written down at all?

Why was it written, or read, upside down?

Why should a Book be painted in two-thirds,

Magdalene in richer surroundings,

revealed with a pot of Lily

in the foreground to foretell

the coming and going of Joan of Arc?

Why would God need to read down,

creating the need to leave the Book

pointed up in order to ascertain

that which the Creator already knows?

In the Book of Kells

the Gaelic kept 

the coming and going,

waiting to leave and weave

out in a swirl of possibilities,

in a dervish tree-mind of Nature ...

O, how such details are wasted

on Jesus believers in a hurry

to get home to watch the Dallas Cowboys

down from above ... They, who have found

such easy answers on the surface, maybe a halo,

a hoot, in the institutions of the arts,

who drive their hairy chariots

across the bones of the Blood

of Jesus, always the little boy,

always the Man, the Saint!

O sure, O sure,

the Iris isn't Eris

for sorrows or such fools,

for neither minnows or Bulls,

for the peacocks or for Pride,

or for Paradise

or for the Google

of the mind ...

For Fibonacci?

For factories in Flanders?

Do we blame the Dutch ... really?

The Dutch? And speaking of towns,

tongues and virgins, unchurched,

but, all the same able to act

quite natural, but hidden from sight

in those visceral bones of sacred light,

the arcana of the Black Madonna

in from views but taller than them all

in the geometric sacred Twin Towers

of Solomon ... for Hieronymous Bosch,

who liked the challenge of harbors

in disorders and hidden orders

to synthesize the Dhambala,

the Sirius, the Dog Star ...

in order to ask O why, o why

or why ...

Los Huerseros (The Bones)

Laying down his bones 

in the back alley 

of the dispossessed 

the lonely man shivers 

in the streetlight 

Ambushing archers, 

waiting in the wood, 

keep a keen eye 

far into the distance 

for the enemies 

of love 

She picks up his bones 

breathes flesh from her stone, 

but then walks away, 

stinging his skin  

with a slap to awake him 

Leaving his bones, again ... 

Le Heusero died again, 

and he lingers here, 

beneath this tree, 

as the corridor waits 

to hear the song 

of the beautiful woman  

whose legend is told 

from hill to hill, 

mountain to mountain, 

sea to misty sea.

SECOND AMENDMENT BLUES (Sung to the Melody of Sympathy for the Devil)

Please allow me to introduce myself

I'm a man with guns and ammo

but my only weapon is the word

I don't own a gun

but we can't trust

the government:

So I don't own a rifle

that much more

I've got the Second Amendment blues

don't feel no safe cause I pay attention

to the news

I've got no wealth, poor as hell,

but I taste great

and my fire is in my fingers,

my hate is just a waste

No man owns the sun,

but the moon? On the run.

Pleased to meet you, Son of Sam,

and you, angry young man,

holed out in your barnominium

because your friends and loved ones

can't even drop a line

so you play World of Warcraft

on your long drawn out overtime

I've got the Second Amendment blues

You don't feel safe cause you pay no attention

to my views

Fancy guitar part goes here

Here goes part fancy guitar

Part here goes guitar fancy

I'm just saying no to you, Nancy

I am the dead man in your church

and I am bleeding on your daughter

There ain't no rhyme or reason, Sam,

because a well-trained weapon of war

is what they paid me to be and I am

So when I came home, far from the slaughter

the whole unified field theory thang

just made too much sense to me

So I became the chicken come home

to roost to show you what you made of me

I've got the Second Amendment blues

And your silencer is my guard duty

I've got a stolen secret in my shoes, bomber

I've hired my own lawyer to be your judge, Judy 

Tell my dad he should have listened more,

and tell my X she was the best

I've got the Second Amendment blues

You can't be safe cause you locked me

behind the door and I just took the cue

Oooo we ooo. Ooo e woo. Woo woo woo.
Woo woo woo. Ooo e woo. Oooo we ooo.
Ooo e woo. Woo woo woo. Ooo e woo.

TRESPASSING IN AMERICA (For Dennis the Menace)

Walking toward the phony duck pond

made in a one-pony subdivision

in some desert in Southwest America,

pit, plotted, planned, cheaply

made by a dishonest developer

who eventually rotted in a jail cell

for a lie told to rich old maids in NYC

because he had promised lakes

pumped from a river, rotting dry,

like the pond now, where geese

have gathered and school busses pass on by

along winding roads

lacking sidewalks, lacking

thoroughfares for little children

who would be O such a shame

if run over by said same school busses

because there's only one pond

now and empty electricity boxes

still haunt the highways lined

by properties illegally lot-split

by old Ned Warren; he who

made a mint, who sent postcards

back East promising paradise

to a lie, no, overstating,

but nevertheless sold out by some

now laying duck in Washington D.C.

But you he are who walks, talks tax-paying duck

now, that Walmart greeter,

and today I found

the most previously

nasty thing I'd ever written:

That senior citizens

were considered to be

the most dangerous

creatures on Earth

because they have

a piece of paper

from some laying duck

in Washington D.C;

but this book, see,

Freakanomics,

(so now I have independent confirmation)

also made a mint

with such carefully

rendered lines

as "superpredator

versus senior citizens,"

thus making its mint

and, of course, target market

We walked toward the duck pond

wolf hairy, feathered, lined with brown scum,

candy bar papers, car parts,

beer bottles, broken plastic

parts of Pez dispensers,

left by school children

who could now give a fuck

because their daddies cheat

on tax returns sent to other

cheating fucks who could

also give a shit about you, me:

I've got one blank sheet of paper

downloaded from a Web

made of ether, all created by

one lying duck in Washington D.C.

The pond is peaceful now except

for honking echoes of bright green mallards

who haven't yet turned greedy by little old

men who run the world,

throwing out bits of bread from porches

overlooking fenced in portions

of an artificial landmark, made of water,

promised to them, or, people like them,

who were once promised refuge

by long-dead Ned Warren

that such villages along the Verde

lined with steppes still cluttered

by Apache hand bones still clutching

single pieces of paper signed by

some laying duck in Washington D.C.

Property. Property. Prop. Prop ... er, Tea.

II

I've got a stack of papers

I can't get to because the one

I love goes into fits of grief and rage

over invisible digits of cash

that disappeared into said same ether

and now those lone gone meat locker loins

must be beefed up again to make up

for the losses caused by greed-head Bernie Madeoffs

who lied to little old ladies and mere millionaires

also rendered lifeless by empty promises made

on eight-by-eleven sheets of paper

signed by laying ducks in Washington D.C.

and not one damn sheet on the dirty old paper pile

will ever work in my favor, so why bother?

Property. Property. Proper tea.

And turning off the rounded lanes,

we have ourselves a polite little party,

laughing ourselves into parties

celebrating the quail who slip in and out

of artificial worlds

lacking sidewalks, where we find a well-worn

trail trod by anarchist atheists misled to believe

there is no god when in fact there is, but, hell,

they are actually referring to the demiurge churned

into trash lining the bone-dry portions of the pond,

perfected into a beautiful life-saving reality

made easier to believe by some duck who lied

in Washington D.C. ... but the dead can be brought

to life no easier than the muck can be raised

to rinse the once-clean waters of the Verde

And off the road, where the Mustangs and Escalades,

made mavericky,

speed on by,

rolling on gasses, endangering

school children, lacking sidewalks; who run

home to play on point-and-shoot games

because there is no place to play

in the faux hopes made by grey old men

who promised paradise to little old ladies

in Washington dee see of we sing ... off the road

there's this well-worn trail only misfits

like me can see or be and she now crouches

to peak into the weeds and sage to hear

the cackle of pheasant hens rendered

accelerating life force made mad by the Sun,

which is overheating now, in mad pulse paces,

mixed in with Venusian skies, pitiless star gazes,

and we move on between properties, made proper,

by little pieces of paper, now lining cages,

feeding parrots who repeat perfect truths

made so by Madeoffs advertising safe acres,

security mom spaces, relying on promises

made perfect by little pieces of paper kept sacred

by men who lie daily from remote high places

in Washington D.C. ...

Property. Property. Proper, E.T.

III

Among the many mistakes I've made

in my life is turning right, instead of left,

up this well-paved hill leading to

a manicured driveway ... So she,

who hasn't been outdoors for a month,

who might start screaming at any point

of the day because she, made of soft flesh, saintly blood,

is roiling with so little electricity in her head

her once-brilliant mind can only meekly protest

my attempt to blaze a new trail up this steep incline

leading to a canyon, along the steppes, along the Verde

And this Walmart greeter pops out from behind his usually locked door,

now doubt interrupted from watching Poppa rail and bleat

about how property is the momentary might ruining

the likes of me because only I ever saw the truth of a possible

pathway that, if placed into the hands of currently more

enlightened civic minds might form task forces

to imagine places where children might play

and both little old ladies in electrified golf

carts might pass as easily as javalina family trios

and rolling hungry hordes of courtly coyotes, but no,

the Walmart greeter has to pop out, a Jack of his box,

to ask me, "May I help you," inferring later, in review,

masked hostility, happily rendered now at me, a happy target;

and now I turn my back on his perky little puppy

barking out orders made possible

by a little piece of paper signed by,

this shit little paper signed by ...

this fucking shitty lie made perfect ...

I turn, the sudden wolf, and Toto runs away,

and big Him me, who saves the day

has his own damn sheet of ether now

along with the memory of this proper path

where there is a canyon made of crayons of what I know

about eight-by-eleven sheets of paper

signed by ducks who lie daily

in Washington D.C.

All HALLOWS EVE (For the Fleet of the Damned)

I met a girl who sang the blues

and then she walked off

the very face of the Earth.

So good old boys,

drink your whiskey and be wry,

see through your red-shift in thine eye,

the blue-shift in the American pie in the sky,

your lie is no pie, no water and no rye,

and no life is for no foolin'

in the world your rulin', the orb your ruinin'.

Because death is a happily dead peasant

I know, there is nothing more unpleasant.

No bigger lie, bigger no reason

than to keep ourselves

from just being amusin'

at the electro-chemical,

metaphysical union,

this revolutionary season.

It's all just layers

and layers

inside

one

big

onion

leading

to a mattress

sale on your tv,

and underneath there's a pearl

in a movie about a whale

and an old pirate guy with TB,

and from there he sailed

the underworld surfer's beliefs

and found the secret in his tea,

that the bones be they

and they be she,

and God's Black Madonna,

is the greatest

revenge

in never-ending

human history.

Seventy Two Hours as a Social Darwinist (To the Sound of Cyberpunk We Go)

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist 

Gotta get ahead of you (Seventy two hours) 

Seventy two hours as a Social Darwinist 

Gotta get an edge over the loss, 

vengeance is hip you know 

Gotta get a handle on the guilt I miss 

gotta get a multiple set a girlies to kiss 

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist 

Gotta get over you (seventy two, seventy two, seventy two hours) 

Seventy two fucking shitty hours as a Social Darwinist 

As you tried to convince me of your Know Nothing bliss, 

I let my eyes look away, if for just a minute (Seventy two, seventy two seventy two) 

Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin 

You won`t like the feeling, your empty hand will be shaking (seventy two, seventy two) 

Won`t like the smell as the whole world is quaking (seventy two, seventy two seventy seventy seventy two) 

(Refrain) 

On the third day I flew across the sky 

rebuilt the temple of love, I did pray 

Sure, I fell, makin` a hell of her heaven, 

and man O man let the bunker busters fly 

I ran for cover, O sweet Sweet Twenty Three Skidoo

(Twenty three, twenty three twenty three skidoo) 

By the sixty-ninth hour as a social Darwinist 

I ran for cover, looking for the way you look at me, 

hoping and I`m praying to look up to you. 

(Jaggedy Guitar riffs here) 

Three more hours as a social Darwinist, 

for just three days I forgot about you (seventy two, O, seventy two, yeah) 

Seventy two hours of living from your hand to my fist 

Separate but equal, sure, gotta get a step on you. 

Treated every living thing like my private little toy 

Dreamin of the cosmos now, when I was just a boy (Darwinist) 

Wore your love like a glove but there was no joy (Darwinist) 

Gotta get around these blank walls, gotta get over you (Darwinist) 

Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin

Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin

Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin

Cat and Andrew's Ring (And a Wedding That Never Happened)

Your ground is weeping

The humid air soaks

Wrinkles into all my

Categorization. I am

The air, ever changing

And it’s easy to see

How my inability

To be ever present

On the earth

Is enough to send

You beneath the surface.

He was a fair-faced man

With a smooth baby face

And a soft tone of mouth

That would easily shatter

But he could shatter none.

They bought a wedding ring

And experienced love

Well before the mildew

Of everyday things

Could wear the heat away

She would talk talk talk

About the little things

I couldn’t see, or believe

My wind heart hardened

Into storm clouds

Into a rain of gloomy

Terror in a private sky.

Mostly I was jealous

But realistic, knowing

Love is a survival game

Old as the dirt and sun

And if for just a while

I consider the trees

As I blow through in ill ease

Of temperature and pain

Let me for just this once

See the majesty

In the impermanent

Pebbles, and in tenderness

For just this one day

Of weather, remain.

ANOTHER PARKING LOT FOR WORDS (STARBUCKS AFTER DARK IN THE KEY OF KEROUAC)

In a penguin on the television set apartment,

with no water in my chalice,

home of the grandaughter

of mad bomber physicist

Wolfgang Kurt Hermann "Pief" Panofsky,

who was made famous for the eons

in a Monty Python skit,

I made sure the windows

were all wide open for the cooling

and ran out of the house, trembling,

God forbid the warming, should we

ever break bread with reclaiming

witches living off our free bread

They insisted they could save me;

They were beautiful in their own zonked ways,

and then, the saving being done,

called me the devil, the devil,

the devil, three times,

before they were One ...

And compassion is a virtue

sold out in short supply,

borrowed again for what Ryan Adams

might call the "rescue blues,"

when they pay you up front

and lecture you the rest of your days

with their vitriol and their dim views

And there you were, with my backlit

ghost behind the suffused

dark arts Baphomet computer,

the difference between innocence

and knowledge being sub-atomic,

it’s positively Platonic,

allegorical, hysterical ...

when you ask for a cigarette

since it’s my personal policy

to only give out one cancer stick

per hour to the hopeless ...

(I mean homeless) ... and if they

claim to have hope I give them three:

That’s how smoke-free hopelessness can be.

So it’s back to my parking lot for words,

worlds within worlds,

a bridge too far from the gypsy cafes

as Napoleon, fresh face-i-fied,

sleepwalks into Starbucks to be reborn

and his iconic cup

 of Gaian corporate glee, 

which may be good news,

just maybe ... since I saw

a kachina in my dreams,

then his shirt logo of the same

damn military echelon of wings,

eagle spread, winking

He, a soldier sure, retired, moneyed,

yes, a super serene Baby Bomber ...

A crier of you know what ...

Fear for sale. Fear, the slut.

Say can’t you hear their bird's eye cries,

they are, bling-winged bat men who sigh,

repacking themselves, after landing,

in their imperial cruiser esuvees:

I saw a documentary

on their disappearing, once.

But they will live free to die to free me

to be free, an uneven trade,

the polarity of it, so absurd

I guess I need them more than they need me.

Then one more comes in,

a walking zombie cell phone call

after parking a black hawk

Land Rover, gee ...

she has camo flag pants in tune

to those photos on the big electronic

BBS .. SBB...Bss...BS...Bs...BS...

I would walk down Colfax

all the way to downtown Denver

just to run away to see those neon bells

with a crazy dame like her,

to see the red lines speeding by

of Iranian missile launches

all doctored up to be seen

on this stolen property, this land

for you and me ...

Hey man,

what’s the plan

what was that you sai-i-i-d

sun tan, burning man,

lying there in bed?

You who tried to socialize

but couldn’t seem to find

what just what, Jethro,

you were looking fer,

that sumpin’

on your mind ...

Piped-in classic rock:

The very ether of the Rockies

But a big heron circles

over Starbucks, wide white

sailing, neither failing

nor flailing

with black-tipped wings

... and just as strangely

I almost missed, the ponytailed

programmer in a Prius

as a potential friend

to send this give up, this smoke,

this one-per-hour cigarette of hope

to a guy wearing a turqoise bracelet: 

Hey! Hey! ... Hay?

How much faith do you have today?

I just got a medal in my dream:

A Thunderbird re-e-e-e-ward,

and another laugh, a smile,

from a strong blueish blonde blondee

bird driving a white trash from Truckee Ford

So good, this little gettaway:

Love this parking lot

almost as much 

as I love

having the last word.

~ Written while observing a Starbucks parking lot in Aurora, Colorado

OUR DUST IS OUR COMMON DENOMINATOR

One more sip of water

One last ear of corn

at the Big Pharm

Earth's daughter

is refused

her prescription

to stop the rain

Just bought a rice cooker

From the Chairman Mao

collection: No laugh,

No seed, nothing

to do but sell

Baby strollers

not available

in stores

as I yearn for

a life that bores

The price of diapers

will cause a drop

in the population

sure as cold stone

You just wake up

to Al Roker

to keel over

from the rising heat

on his balance sheet

October games

Terror claims

one more day

with no more rain

Lightning whips

as the highway slips

with hailstones big

as baseballs

Urban nation city state,

we are only as good

as the world we make

They who live behind

their golden gates:

See the ethanol gas can men,

green with greed

as humanity

bends toward liberty

a bit too late

There's nothing

left to satiate,

or kill the pain

or stop the rain

as this dusty dry desert world

goes down the drain

 

I run out

into the Indian summer

to sell my belongings

just to stay sane

Tossed upon on a mountain, now behind the shades, longing for the lost, ever-changing sea, but not me

We made this place up. You were used,

brought here to recite Faulkner,

to champion great beasts from the sea,

thwarting the diamond-hearted vistas

of America, sold, bought, traded ...

No, another scene: Closer, a yard

of broken concrete, cowards,

laughing, chasing some old lady,

down the road ... No, closer, closer!

You called the police car. You!

Now my nerves are jangled

and the ambulance is gone

and the TV news crew

never arrived like it does

in the movies and the

music is the reason

why I cannot live

without you.

Closer? Can't be. Just can't.

I mean, it's too close, too soon.

The curtains, full of holes,

like a planetarium at mid-day

of endless siestas: My god,

you stayed here with me?

You endured this tormented

corner of trains going

in both directions and audible

rattlesnakes ripping

through the night

and automobile drivers

who just don't get it

and never will?

Don't you see who I am?

I am a man who cannot

even think about leaving

because if I do, it will be

the end of music for me

and I will have to walk down

the straight without your

sweet warm palm

inside my hand and, man,

that's just to close, woman.

You got no right, just no right

to shed such salty tears

on my brow as we hide,

trembling, behind walls

stained by forgotten

details, jagged angry

mad loafers who once

made these roadside

spaces home

away from the sea

Welcome to the Last Water Wars

All typed up in Courier-wet ink

poisoned at dawn, the two messengers

were hung with typewriters for counterweights

to keep stiff in the wind and rain on a sandstone hill

Last water! ... Last water! Beyond your first thirsts:

You cannot be a centrist in the undeclared aquifer war

Come, see Jerusalem, the Gasoline War is over

and they'll be begging for the drinks, me thinks,

from Damascus to all near-beer holes and the shores ...

For water is life for the timid and the meek,

for even satiated Kings and Queens

with red and blue bottles of perfumed wines,

for that sacred drop off the first morning vine

O sure, O, sure ... the autocrat will pour fresh

to soothe and wash their hands of this thing and that,

for the blood of their guilt of our lost daughters and sons,

but only from the sea will we ever so eternally run

LATE NIGHT STROLL AFTER THE BARS ALL CLOSE

Do I look like a Circle K,

a walking convenience store

for your craven desperate needs,

who can dial you up your alcohol

when the state laws say go away?

It has been quite an experience here in hell,

Where the party people all fall out the bars at 2 a.m.

and spill onto the road like antelope with helicopters chasing them

The cops, in their feeding frenzy pick them off, one by one, two by two.

They spin down the boulevard in whirls of ache, the need unsatisfied,

their numbness, slowing going awake. I roll one guy a cigarette

who promised to pay, smoked it and left and I let him go away.

Please go away. Please go, away! The new moon is in its new cycle

and the power of the haunting is getting bigger by the day,

I just went out for a bit of air, time to think, now I howling again

from your need to drink, and the hollow sound of your two-faced lie,

I watch you walk down the alley way, and I wonder why I even try.

Then there's this other guy who told me about a fight, likes Vodka over beer

because it gives him second sight. I tried to get a word in but the liquor

was his holy roll. He broke up a fight and I became his priest to a confession

I didn't even invite. Couldn't get a word in. Couldn't get it right:

So here's what I think of the demons of the night ...

NIGHT LIFE IN COSTDALE, ARIZONA (FOR CHARLES BARKLEY)

This city is full of stinkers,

wannabe politician shop keepers,

Walmart hoarders, real estate gangsters,

frumped-up bean counters,

dead-tired security guards,

soccer mom whores for the bling,

speed freaks, shallow non-thinkers,

pretty boy coke heads on trust funds,

private drinkers, dressed to kill drivers;

That's the town of thee I sing.

Just how big is your diamond ring?

You can keep it on at the orgy, I think.

MOURNING BY THE HOUR, ANGELS SWEET, ANGELS SOUR, FOLLOWED BY ONE MILLION BRIGHT LIGHTS

So you wake up before dawn:

Not the girl, but the time of day,

and it's just all too heavy, the dark,

the weight of the week,

and sure, you can tell yourself,

"Oh, maybe I can just enjoy

the suspense

of knowing

what's about

to happen

next?"

And then you get the coffee loaded,

have that first smoke, and your spiritual advisor

opens the door, your little plastic chair

for a throne, huffing and puffing

the sad magic dragon,

and you say "Sure,

where else would I be?"

And the mystic fortune teller laughs

because at least she knows

it's going to be Okay

The day breaks.

You shake off the snakes.

The doctor who interrogated you

the day before. The bill collector.

The bomb about to go off on your TV.

And you linger, for just one moment,

telling yourself: "Fuck it, this what I do."

There is time for everything,

your old friend once said,

and what there is no time for,

there is no time for.

You go back at it, Jack,

doing it all again,

reeling in your tears

because you know she's out there,

maybe cold, maybe alone, dead,

or worse, and those were just

were your worse fears,

overblown

I don't mean to be morose ...

I'm just not comatose

Then all the faces across the land

start popping up, like grains

on some lengthy beach of sand,

the waves washing over you,

the brilliance of all of those

wanting to take a stand

The new day is here.

Good to be alive.

And off that coast,

I dive, the leap of faith,

the lingering love possible,

being just awe right

with this unified field

of friends

is this great sea of people

far out there

in facey space