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Flockprinter

... You have been a long time comin'

and the clouds have rolled You in slowly.

But I ain't mad at the upshot sky.

Rain,

it's my lucky number.

It's the author of release.

It taught me monsters are easy to come by

so I went out and found the beast

before we met

when the assignment was to incomplete myself

with sad songs and recycled insults,

when I was spun out eyes bagged teeth fist first in lust and

considering Jesus,

You were there.

You have been the whole journey

and I ain't got nothin' against goin' home

to You,

Flockprinter.

You look good yer tidal wave,

toe-to-toe with the mean blue moon,

head raised up like a lighthouse.

You are buttercups spraying

out the mouths of doves,

fireworks stuck in the air.

You're a freestanding landing pad held together by choir claps.

You're a god

not afraid

to walk with the saviors

who ride monkeys around on their backs

kicking up mercury

spreading upward openly,

carrying breath.

Well.

You're an 18-stringed guitar heart sparkin'

off roots dancing out of the river's edge.

You walk like a free country

with an affinity for thick skin.

You live

humming to the tune of let loose like a railway

banging through the middle of Novocain,

an open winded under water fire escape.

Flockprinter,

You have, now are, and always will be

my reflection of individuality

carried out by the acoustic drift

of a snowflake. . .

livin' with a fingerprint

And I

am rumble motion jawbone

waterlogged with ink spots

smiling ear to ear

armed with backbone and busted zoo gates

promising You

from the bottom of my harmonica pocket

forever,

You will never have another lonely holiday.

Even now,

where the assignment is to live without a destination,

I end up with You and the rain, released.

Both,

flockprinting stars

between me and the beast.