round and round,
cuz I just don't get it,
unless you are just keeping me
in a poetic B.I.C.O.E. case
at the edge of your ego.
I have the justice disease
where I want to make things make sense,
talk it out, fight it right,
nothing short of grand gestures,
meta poems like this,
dive right in, skip the B.S.
and just exist again.
when you're brave enough to see.
Tell you, nothing's really ever what it seems
with clouds beneath our feet.
with clouds beneath our feet.
buried under moonlit letters,
like this and these,
where even tiny thoughts
where even tiny thoughts
can hopefully blossom mountain-tall
in dust mote morning galaxies,
cuz we both know
in dust mote morning galaxies,
cuz we both know
pages of poems can carry us
over the garden wall.