You Know


You Know.

You say you don’t.

But I know

You Know.

It is high time,


To be The Wise.

After so many tries

You say the same thing –

And it is getting old.

Because we both know

That you Know.

Deep down in that

Beautiful Soul

Is the Knowing

Behind the I-don’t-know;

A Fine Mind gets twisted

And lost sometimes…

Inflated by it’s own, sexy


Like it’s got it all down pat

But we, well…

We Know better than That.

The seeds down in the seat of the soul

Burn as eternal embers,

As forever-regrowth;

An entire forest ready to grow!

If only you would stop saying

I don’t know.

Dive further, yes even further

To touch that living, breathing coal

The one that says,

“I do Know.”

It will never leave you

Or deceive you.

That intangible thing that Dickenson


“Perches and sings”

Is infallible and Divine.

It is time you claimed it and said

“I make It mine.”



The Child (a poem)

Dance with me, oh little one!”

Said the deepest, darkest Night.

I will twirl with you and swirl with you —

Make wrong turn into right.

Oh starry-eyed child, look this way –

And close those perfect eyes.

I’ll take away the pain of Now

Replace it with lovely lies…

With black forest cake, and chocolate hills

Angel dust, and sexual thrills…

Magical tricks and plenty of sweets…

Trade me your soul for these endless treats!”

The child was sad, so lost and alone

Knew of a King and a Queen —

But they’d abandoned their throne.

He was hungry and tired,

This starry-eyed being…

Could not comprehend

All the pain he was seeing.

In his childlike, innocent, unassuming way –

Sealed his fate with the Night:

And said “Yes” to the trade.

And so he danced with the Dark —

Oh, was he swirling and a’whirling…

But – Alas! –t’was the Night who was controlling his twirling.

Soon the child grew…

Was no longer small…

No more starry-eyes, or fantasies

Or, well…any dreams at all.

No more thoughts of the freedom

His own life could be

He had given it up

Quite unknowingly

To a thing that could never love him back

A thing that was only a sick-cycle-trap

And we exclaim,

“How unfair! What they’ve done to this child!”

“He had no chance!”

His potential, defiled –

But lo! We must realize –

And THIS is the thing:

In this story,

You and I

Are the Queen and the King.