Monday, October 01, 2007



The dosage drops and I find my control
Of my emotions drops on the same curve,

That sweet sense of perspective, balance, thought

Allowed between the impulse and expression.

Poor man, who only wants to smoke a bowl

And do the horizontal dance -- my dervish,

Do you choose to whirl upon this spot?

Are you immune to fallout from depression?

However that may be, my very soul

Is riven by your steadfast love, your nerve.

Sweet incarnation of all I once fought,

Accept my own poor love, hear this confession:

Though storms may lie ahead, my heart is set

And I risk all on this one foolish bet.


Beloved, it will be four days, not three.
Your optimism forces me to smile;

I've done this dance before, have had to come

Down on the darker side to balance out.

But that just makes a New-Age Scrooge of me,

Whose present, past, and future walk in file

In dreams that promise love and new life. Some

Hearts can embrace those dreams, some live in doubt.

My doubts remain, but I'll just let them be.

A truth is to be lived: what use is bile?

We've other fluids: blood, spit, tears, and phlegm.

Come, live with me, since I can't live without.

Come, aging hippie, bitchy queen, redeem

Your evil twin, let love make life a dream.


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