There is no beauty greater than I, sitting soundlessly on the ground until the time I rise.
I could jump in the lake or run down the hill keeping warm on adrenaline and zany abandon.
In dreams, Dr. Seuss trades drawings with me. Mick Jagger feels I’m a freath of bresh air.
Using mnemonic devices, I manage to check off items on the to do lists in my dreams.
A hundred poems a day and a novel get lost in the wind between my mind and the writing.
Empires treat my blood like gold. The violence is not my fault, but sometimes troubles me.
My body upon waking is the heaviest thing in the house. Elephants could not move me.
Any of my motes, acting alone, can heat the air in a room, but to cool it all must act in concert.
Top to bottom, the business world (gratefully) grinds to a standstill the days I play hooky.
The ocean will make me a fine bed where I will be able to roll all night and never fall out.
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