8/31/95

                                    8/31/95
                                Sao Paulo

Less than a thousand years
Four days will do
To regain a clue
Through solitude
To remember the taint of hate
The thorns of fear
The concrete loneliness
Have no place with me today

That love, real love is the power of surrender;
Found elsewhere than the fantasies of repair
Among friends and strangers without a touch
Humane transactions beyond the rivers of currencies

That compassion is everyone's right
In a world of selfish wrongs
How big are we all to swallow and reach
Those who cry behind malice and stories

That truth need not be a weapon;
Delivered with a human care, it remains the truth
A ventilation of lies to protect someone
Will not revive the slowly dying

Is this human nature?
Is this new age hippie shit?
Is this a utopia that we can all turn our backs on?
Not me, right
         now...

Given the gift of choice
(through the eyes of hate, a curse)
I must remember
And practice
And stay out of the cancerous corners
Of my own head
Whether dragged in by others
Or freely marched in on my own
 
Today I write a post it note
That I have seen the difference
That I have reminders everywhere of both routes
That love exists for me
That compassion can emit from me
That truth is more positive
    than creative silence

These are not rules
Written in meaningful mediums
Just thoughts that made me smile
At strangers over coffee
While the sound of running water
Made my seat that more comfortable.