Lines Written in the Morning

There are no rules, there are no standards
Though I go through the Neptune stellium on the ecliptic
And why all potheads look like elves to find them.
It all comes back as pieces of myself
I am free to change, rearrange or not.

Ron Paul is President
Then an also-ran
In a bat of an eye
And it is only for me to contemplate
How fairly I govern myself in that moment.

My children crying to be loved not abandoned
Are there to remind my heart how it feels,
And as they morph into chirrups of gratitude,
How there is nothing not already created
Only gaps here and there so we can ponder what's next.

My lovely home at Bella Sera
Becomes for me like a Greyhound Bus
Passing by all my eyes and breath devise.

Cold, alone, I am, but where would I be
If I unbuttoned the chains?
How could I know how to multiply
Without division?
How could I not discover I am the whole
Without the fractioning and the vanishing?
I woke up this morning to put together the impossible—this poem!