I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,

Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you?

I note the obvious differences in the human family. Some of us are serious, some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are lived

Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.

We, this people, on a small and lo… Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way o… To a destination where all signs t… It is possible and imperative that…

A last love, proper in conclusion, should snip the wings forbidding further flight. But I, now,

When I think about myself, I almost laugh myself to death, My life has been one great big jok… A dance that’s walked A song that’s spoke,

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing

FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,

When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the stre… Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always

We were entwined in red rings Of blood and loneliness before The first snows fell Before muddy rivers seeded clouds Above a virgin forest, and

She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running