We cannot create
heaven or earth —
nor must we,
for these are given.

But waters encroach,
fish float,
beasts perish,
and humans fall prey
to darkness.

So we must write,
must write just
to let there be,
let there be light!

The salesman at the door
is looking for a need;
if he doesn't find one,
he weaponizes greed.

No need to be rude
to this simple working man
who satisfies desires
in everyone he can.

Just let him know you're happy
with everything you've got,
and he'll be on his way
to someone who is not.

"We'll divide our time
into Living and Dead,"
they said to themself
getting out of bed.

"Today we'll die
and tomorrow we'll live."
Then they showered, got dressed,
and left for work.

I could sell water purifiers
and do some people good
by straining out carcinogens
that might get in their blood.

I could sell encyclopedias
and help nice families out
with everything they need to know
or care to learn about.

I could sell fancy automobiles
to people moving up
so they can ride in luxury
and never have to stop.

Or I could give away these lines
to children yet unborn,
who may or may not give a ****,*
whom I will not have known.

You may be forty-five today,
          But still look twenty-one;
And even when you’re eighty-five,
          You’ll be the only one.

I live my life to hear your laugh
          And see your smiling eyes;
If I could gift wrap happiness,
          You’d get a big surprise.

Each day and week and month and year,
          My love for you goes on;
And it won’t stop no matter what,
          Not even when I’m gone.

Old man of the new South,
champion of losers,
poet of prose,
one hundred candles are not enough.

On this date born
before Adam fell,
you saw the serpent
and lived to tell.

You tell it so well
even the ding-**** bell
won’t silence your still-talking
ever-prevailing inexhaustible voice,*

as doom itself is drowned
by the sound of a civilization
gathering round
the only candle worthy of your day:

the sun.

We’re tired of reaching for the tempered dream,
of stretching days and getting squeezed by years,
and bored with the swaggers, the pushes and shoves
of people in rushes to get somewhere,
like hogs in a slaughterhouse hoping to eat.

We’d sooner starve alone in the lively air
than follow billions to a frigid doom.
Why chase the wind when we can turn and face it?
Why measure time by the mirror in our room,
when we can follow earth, sun, stars and moon?