the first drop of rain we’ve ever seen still crawls.

we caught the rain when we first looked,
kept it clear until we learned to speak
and distinguish love and hate through
experience. there were clouds stuffed
still, reactions made memories,
perceptions molded too, and we polluted
the first drop of rain we ever knew,
with the many we’ve ever felt, when we
chose to walk
passively into the mortal storm.

the jester on the hill.

i met a mind in the mist’s interior — there,
behind the curtain of dust where this city is staged.
and where i thought, it met me there, pulling my brain
into Bacchus’ neuron maze where a dream is an end.

might i instruct you, and ponder still — where
to begin, to go — lead with me, where e’er you are.

this place, some haven made foul, haunted some face
long ago — i can feel his eyes in mine. ’tis lost;
there, beside the water’s end — a jester in the wild
meeting revolution in the still wind’s laughter. the

jester danced on the sermon’s hill by the swallowed sands,
where the hips of these hills were held by the shore,
singing songs to the sun’s own carpet of waves
below the circling gray where a lark softly soared.

my, what a vision — what sits behind the door
of his eyes? the king’s death, or his scepter’s bell?
bless him still — take him home — where e’er that leads,
and let him laugh his chains of life away.

the sun frees his mind from all fears made sweet –
save me too, and let us dance — before i laugh my last impatient breath,

for when the maze is met, it is never quite forgotten.