Jump Right In I can think of all kinds of words
that mean everything but the truth
and even with that said,
nothing is written in stone.

If it were, we'd have some
very heavy newspapers,
so to speak,doing a crossword
would be noisy and a mess,
the want ads would be a hernia
for an insane man
foolish to think that anyone
would add them to the payroll
just because they
pay a quarter for The Daily Rock.

I would have been Peter
on whom the
Church is built,
but my knees give out easily,
and I'm allergic to
fish sticks and bread,

Everything I mean to say
is in the wind
and lost to this land like
the spores that need
a breeze to carry them
to where something can
develop in the manner of
either grief or luscious days
of fruit and slaked thirst.

Every thing I do comes home again.
and you are the reason
I stand still long enough to
love the sound of chirping flutes
from a passing van,

The news is printed on
what used to be trees with roots,
and even the news changes
with the seasons,

The flat of my hand
slaps me in amazement
that all the days
are worth having even
when I lose the bets I placed
at teller's window
whose bars have been
painted over that every dent and ding
in the deadened metal
is immortalized until horses refuse to run
and jockeys take jobs
as economists giving lectures,
reaching for the chalk on tip-toe,
reaching as far
as their eyes
can see.