Poetry can unleash a terrible fear. I suppose it is the fear of possibilities, too many possibilities, each with its own endless set of variations. It's like looking too closely and too long into a mirror; soon your features distort, then erupt. You look too closely into your poems, or listen too closely to them as they arrive in whispers, and the features inside you call it heart, call it mind, call it soul accelerate out of control. They distort and they erupt, and it is one strange pain. You realize, then, that you can't attempt breaking down too many barriers in too short a time, because there are as many horrors waiting to get in at you as there are parts of yourself pushing to break out, and with the same, or more, fevered determination.

You're growing up

And rain remains on the branches of a tree that will someday rule the Earth.

And it's good that there is rain

It clears the month of your sorry rainbow expressions

And it clears the streets of the silent armies

So we can dance

White ship dissapears into the wave machine this morning

Your eyes got shot with secret chains

The pill armys eventually set free

Like soft horse through toy deserts

I love this mansion

Though its too many windows

To open half way each morning

To close half way each night