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There is little joy in measuring
The levels of Crazy
In the world

I am soft and crunchy
Wet and warm
A piece of bread
Dipped in a bowl of soup

Some day our body
Will choose to eat
Itself

Until then, we notice
The things.
Exploding drops of
Water on the windshield.
The rumbling road
That feels like thunder
From a coming storm.
The way the music
Changes when we listen.

Good times can be serious
Walls are good for hanging art.
Holding the roof up when it rains.

We like to use the wall as a metaphor.
Build the wall.
Tear the wall down.
I’d like to tear down this metaphor.
A wall is just a wall.
No wall is higher than the Moon.
No wall is deeper than the volcano’s
Lava.
There is no wall that goes all the way Around.
Only we go all the way.

Today I think saw a dog
Driving a car
It was raining but
He looked very calm

Sometimes the windmills
Are like drums
The road is a very long
And winding instrument

We search for our names
In the bushes
Sometimes we finds them
On the backs of trucks

It’s a different way
To let the the leaf land
Where there is a place for it
It is learning and forgetting
It is drinking at the bar
It’s learning to talk
Loud enough
But not so loud it hurts
The birds oh side

It’s making music with the Fruit
The squash of the orange juice
It is not always easy to use
If you listen close you will even find the
Honey deep down inside
The drunken sailors voice