marimba giddy
one leg mambos, one cha-cha's
life is a surprise

Our Dreams

The dreams we dream
Sometimes I do dream
The dreams we dream
Are unfounded,
Simple imaginations
Hopes and desires

We all want to dream,
Fantasize our lovers
Then we hope
And wish
Dreams come true
For me and you

So by now, *We* should have a better idea of what constitutes personalization, attacks, and know enough to have rudimentary glimpses into the nature of who we are and depersonalized ourselves from the inherent nature that seeks to define things in categories of *either* *or*. If *this is true*, than *that could not possibly be true*.

Yes? No? Maybe?

I spoke to her on the phone today for her birthday and she was delighted! She wishes to express all her love and missing for all her Neopoet friends and appreciates all the support she has received for her country against the UN, NATO and mercenary agents provocateur.

The troubles there have drawn her people closer in support and solidarity and they will never surrender to foreign ideologies that attack their beliefs and want to steal their oil.

dear darling muse,

I am resigning my position as a scribe in your service,
unilaterally disolving this hierarchical relationship.

of late, I have become aware that your entire existence
is totally dependent upon me being me,
bringing us to this awkward moment.

I am taking over.

you shall be retained, though now in service to me,
while I will be calling the shots,
choosing what shall be written;
subject, style, form, and content.

you, as always, will provide your usual flair and artistry.

piercing a bubble of oblivion
a squeaky chair informs me
I am still alive

snapping, twitching, poping
(a small vocabulary indeed)
yet, implying as much as
all the earth's magnificent poetry

something I had almost forgotten
now, something I will never forget

If you are terrified of your own death,
and want to escape from it,
you may want to write a poem,
for the poem might carry your name
into eternity, the poem
may become immortal, beyond flesh
and fashion, it may be read
in a thousand years by someone
as frightened of death as you are,
in a dark field, at night,
when he has failed once again at love
and there is no illusion with which to escape
the inward pull of his own flesh
against the narrowing margins of the spirit.

I'm looking for my father
his name is Joe
friendly guy
likes to talk
I'm sure you know him
bar stool droop
callused elbows

after a round or two
backslapping
bragging
buying drinks for everyone

middle rounds
boisterous
bullying
braying to the holy mother of God

final round ends
either tossed on his heels
or passed out on the bar

I'm sure you know him
his name is Joe
friendly guy
likes to talk

Watch this:

http://richarddawkins.net/videos/629281-after-the-rapture