It's the Pumkin Beer Talking

The soft self-praise of your own heart, Is this not our lost secret? Bring forth that feathering truth Like fields of canary bells You ring, you're ringing, Ringing from the rib cage. Poetry is the land where all rules fade, Rules for yourself and rules for others, replaced with spools Of no code though every color As the innermost leads this boundless, heralding march, march, marching, towards where? Does it matter? Cry your bloody tears out. Let loose the hysteric mess of a laugh. No manic tide can take the seed of your joy And turn it to some shriveled past. Though what of some perverse prattle? Is that not wild life, too? You are writing now. You are always writing now, the source of blooming miracle, And aren't we all blooming into something ugly or radiant? Confounded or brackish? What madcap nonsense of exteriors we wear. What a looney song we are. But what's inside, what's inside the clamor of it all? Are you forcing words into the dumb quiet? Your one raised hand rising out of infinite dunes? Tell your face it's okay. Relax your grip on the organs of your body. Write this crazed flood and smash through the dam. What dam? Damn the dam. Your nose is a dam, Right between your eyes. Oh, your gorgeous eyes! (Have I told you?) You are the riptide, the holy puddle, the frayed lace. Now set yourself anew. Blooming, blooming and true. Yesterday's stub in your hand, the Life Fair goes on and on. Go today. Go tomorrow. Relish in the joy as much as the sorrow.