During the course

of a full day, I sit and think of all the things I'd like to write. I don't. I have an incredible amount of thoughts bottled up inside that just won't be purged. Only in my car...or moments by myself. The other night falling asleep I wrote a poem. In my head. It's not posted here. It's also not finished. I'm okay with that. So for now...trust that there is a lot more. I watch you. Like a voyeur. We breathe the same air you and I. But it's not the same. Isn't life delicious. Like a bowl full of Barbecued baby. Back ribs. Sticky wet in dark places. Hidden. God it's glorious...like stained glass...but not. Because the stain is too deep and too dark. Crimson. Held tight, but the arms are all wrong. Like a child rendered stick figure. But it still tastes like something, and it might spark. And isn't that what it's all about? Tangents are good, Jesus saves, we breathe cancer, and laugh at the mundane. The innocence of childhood is never lost. We freely let go. Even though we know we can never have it back we believe that to not have it will be better. And it is. There is beauty. There has to be. But boredom is more convenient. And isn't convenience what it's all about? Tingles doesn't it. Right down the spine and into the genitals. Don't I wish that were a prettier word. I guess I could have said crotch. Loins. Nether regions. Special place. Swimming suit area. What a wonderful place to put a tongue. Popsicle. Don't ever tell me that you have no imagination. You use it every time you look at a clock. Laugh more. But for real. Ah the things you hide. Are beautiful. There is beauty. Look no further than...the clock.