Sometimes I am too much,
erupting art lava into the world,
rebelling against this straightjacket of human existence.
Born in California,
the desert must have parched my essence,
for I am always thirsty with desire,
driven to build these little wordsinabottle
floating them into the stupefying cosmos,
hoping they can somehow defy entropy
and blossom like spring into Her heart.
Perhaps this is naïveté,
since that scrub brush littered mountainside
is a permanent feature of the monument of me,
emerging in flourishes of words
or in the strange serenades I sing while dancing
my fingers across the steadfast black-white of the piano.
(It is 3 a.m.
and I am an intruder
inside of my own mind.)
The wind swirls in the still of the night,
fingertips longing to caress,
eyes yearning to gaze into the soul
of a girl that feels like home.
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