Waking with a bed head I know it is time for a cut.

If men were turned into women for just one day, lets say forced to wear dresses and dance, that might solve a lot of problems...

Can someone explain to me why angels have legs.

How is it 

That we are here

Alive 

Looking out the window

How is it that I stand

I see

I breath

That is something.

Nothing is not what surrounds

It is a fantastic planet in all respects

Our laughter makes it spin

We are good for a laugh

Life is good

On this fantastic planet

Undressed in the waters

We are floating

Floating.

Take the rain and make it sing.

The nuns were thinking

With their big eyes

Noticing the changing ways

Of unstable earth

Where things of old collapse

Because it was all connected

Hopes were lightning bolts 

Playing from the thunder clouds

And they danced away

They danced.

Spire in the dark

Stars beaming

Something new waits

Something moves in the darkness

There is a piece of the fabric torn from the sky

It patches the pieces from wire to wire

Along this strange watch tower

All the stars were hallow

And don't you love it

In its order

The clock works

The orange doors

Mercury emerges

Winds encourage.

Into boxes they go with briefcases held tight.

It's impossible to ride on the back of a wild humpasaurus

You will find that it will ride you farther than you could even imagine

Such feet can sweep the street clean

It can freak the freaks

Such magic on the ground floor 

As it goes from door to door

To deliver fresh eggs from winter

Take them into bedroom and roll them on the floor

And they will spin into every color

For the dreams to remember

Pass into a fresh place when the 

Grass is taken away

That the scenery is about to

Change

And the boat is in the living room

The ideas were bubbles going up

And through the roof

How is it you say

Do I do this

That is not for me to say

For ask away

Ask?

In real romantic novels

The story is impossible to tell

Between the two that hold it

It is on the shelf.

Layers unknown in the sands

Dark and rich from the tilling of hands

Old cracked fingers red and disfigured

All the time each sand meant something

Minds are not ticking probably

On through heaven and hells

All sorts moving their bodies

Like the mind has its shoutings

Grapes roll around in a bowl

Having found their mouth

No rotten grapes were found.