Pretty Little Peonies

Constellations rain down upon the dark planets
which hover inside my mind.
Nothing ever taught me more than these
stellar bright silences.
In a dream, we layed upon fresh summer grass;
glimmering emerald tendrils in the deep of night,
and looked towards the skies
for Revelations.
I bit my tongue until it bled so much,
I started choking on the truth.
Someone said the truth is meant to fly.
Why then hold on to anything
other than This moment
made with warring wings.

I am not a man
I am a mystery.

No science book or fiction
can change that simple fact.
  

Artifact.

Through one man I understand thousands,
and through thousands,
one.
Strangers shed light
on my own
human nature
In the same places
where family
makes
the blood run deep.

 Deep in the south
my evolution began,
near a watering brook,

and just like that river,

never finished.

What is memory

but allegory;

a desk, a chair, a flood of papers there,

a forest, a train, a pencil, and a dream.

 New York City

The Northern Lights

Bengal Tigers

and

Symphonies

were

like

predelections.

Bicycles, fortyards, firecrackers,

and cemetaries;

Premonitions.

I wake up and realize

that this

is the lucid dream.