I wake up.
I drink my dirty cup of coffee.
I revel in the burlesque wonder that is life.
I know this house like a prayer,
though I'll never be able to judge it
through a stranger's eye:
this is my sanctuary,for better or worse,
and I worship its flowers the same way
I long for its mud.
I get dressed.
I create a porcelain symphony in the kitchen.
I take care of the people who share my blood.
Why can't I let go?Why don't I have a dream
to tear my flesh from the bone?
Why should I sacrifice today on a temporal pyre
for the sake of tomorrow's uncertain resurrection?
I write my words.
I bathe in the autumn sun.
I wait for the arrival of a wiser dove.
the call for change is like an echo
I chose to banish from my ears
by means of flowing images that never age
and lies so beautifully crafted.
I collect my pages.
I want to believe.
I go to sleep.