bearing fruit

loving kindness begins with the burning
I don't know
in my thick porcelain oven-safe
heart.

on a secure pothole-rich road
winding through field mist,
sparks blow like dandelion seeds from the plow blade
as it flies the last thin ice
off of the once-aspiring shoulder.
they are beautiful, entrancing, mild...

This kind of dawn is a tepid patient,
a singer-songwriter already limited by
the sensitive Twentysomethings who love him.
It's rushing nowhere real fast but with no danger,
only imitation vanilla meanderings.

Stuck in this morning, I review:

I did it all, and even thought some
recommended thoughts, but my 
teacher is quitting this trembling town...

am I holding a pamphlet from a
Sandwich Board Crazy back when
Times Square was honest and tasted like street cred?

I'm no more or less a fool
than the smile in my second grade photo,
than a new-eyed mother,
than cashed-in chips,
than laying a slobbered tennis ball dream
at your free-wheelin' boots
one
more
time