Half of my life is determined.
My guardian angel holds the other half in her gloved hands.
She wears white gloves. She holds the hand of the marvel child.
He makes the city shine like a baptism.
Our mission is to march into the undetermined half of my life.
The weeds of the city poke their head above the lullaby
of my existence.
They are like me asking my guardian angel for some truth.
The city is so clean that angels speak in the classrooms
when I walk the streets.
A plastic bag caught in the wind is a moving film.
I want only enough necessities to leave room for my spirit.
This clean city of driftwood is asking for some beach junk.
I know it's not the nicest name to call the soul,
but I am a man who needs to wash up on a strange
and unfamiliar shore.
The tidal pull of the moon finds me in love
with the little that has been given me.
I walk away from the throne with a fingerprint. Only you,
guardian spirit, reach down your gloved hand and identify me.
You hold my fate in your pure hands.
You are closer to the center when you enter the labyrinth
than at any other point inside the maze.
Plato said we choose our parents. Providence is adjusted.
We arrest our parents in the wake of their lives.
We greet each other with many teachers and few reservations.
A broken heart is our only proof that quality exists.
Our guardian angel has been with us since the beginning.
She lines up our destiny in times of doubt.
She sounds out our names so we can wear them more easily.
Character pastures down into our service
so we may experience all seasons of humanity.
I need to feel the grit of existence on a country road.
I still need to be handled gently, but I need some music
with a grungy beat.
I am checking onto a flight with grubby clothes
and unwashed cheeks.
I am landing in an over stimulated city unwashed in its character.
I am kneeling before a cow in the public space.