for William Blake

there are no shortcuts to places worth going.

i follow a path
(& anything i do
though it would be
to become a gypsy
i regard as urgent)
                          down the road of excess to the palace of wisdom,
like a kid, more
curious than ever
about the sky,
whose life
is like a journeyman
                          who must be at home somewhere
                          before he can feel at home everywhere,
climbing the branches
of an everlasting
that sings rites & riots, living
the language of the unheard, unafraid of dying,
                          but, like baldwin said,
                          everything now…is in our hands.

& when alone
i walk
room to room, agonizing
over shadows, myself
but one of them, cast
on the walls
of this sometimes
lonely sanctuary,
where these words
make music
of my thoughts
necessarily spontaneous
without conforming
to the mainstream
& where love will be
no matter what (WAR)
we think we should
go looking for
& where if i forget
the music will remember then remind me:

a stereotype is the last thing i wanna be.