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The soul is an organ.

It must be exercised,

And played.

It's okay to be a

Frayed,

Around-the-edges

Trainwreck,

As long as it is true.

I don't make anything

For you.

I make things to

Survive:

Poems.

Songs.

Excursions.

Histrionic ravings.

Will you listen to the paintings?

The prophecies unfolding

Like blankets on a

Death bed?

Can you spray graffiti on a rainbow?

Can you vandalize the rat?

Can you save the cat

From eating the

Mouse?

Are you still searching

For wisdom in a madhouse?

Nevermind what they are

Saying;

You must hear what people are

Playing!

You must water the buried

Word,

Consume the written 

Flower.

It is a joke

In the form of a commandment,

But it is

True.

You must drag your desires 

Through the warning.

You must learn to weed the morning 

Like a garden out of

Poems.

Your need for a curse 

In your logic is a 

Verse,

A chorus line of dreary

Dream routines:

"Film everything and they will 

Come."

But it can never be

Enough.

The soul is an

Organ.

It must be exercised, and

Played.

The pleasure vacuum is a 

Burden.

Release it!

There is music in the

Garden!

It's okay to be

Afraid.

September 2026