Alas these thoughts rise as would a summer tide plotting to speak with a suave voice yet only the putrid rot of rose petals and winter dresses fills my lungs. You and I both have fingers who crave ink, paper and some starting verse that will bleed like victims in an uprising ending the last stanza with some "poignant" sigh of humanity. But you know as I do that revolutions are nothing more than youthful flatulence adding a new stink to this chamber of our fathers old farts. And if that were not enough this grand comedy has idealists who spray lemon breeze air freshener to add acidic fumes to it all. "This is the new beginning!" "We will make the world that mother told us couldn't exist" I have left this fruitless orchard, having found comfort in taboo; with sinners and unsaved children, with the last sane wild ones that offer shelter & sanguinity. Sitting here on this park-bench, smokes in my shirt-pocket, I watch them fight over some switchblade- red dragon engraved on its handle, and I smile, contented, knowing peace is best served raw and extra bloody.