why can't turning and
tossing and
pushing the covers around
and collecting the words that bounce in your head
and writing by light from the alarm clock you'll ignore next morning
be a full time job?

a famous singer once said

la la la la la la la la 

e.e. cummings once said

I care not greatly
should the world remember me
in some tomorrow

(but somewhere deep inside, I still wait for poetry (mine and others') to save the world. I would settle for sleeping, walking, playing in the park, watching the rippled glow of the sun on the horizon from the inside of the rattling Geo Metro as two friends bring you back to your home far away from them, fluffy kittens, or pretty much anything else saving the world)

you can either stir up change or warm fuzzy feelings
some dreamers accept that they must use the system themselves, others fight it to their death

historical glory can come from either

(and anybody who wholly accepts such stark divisions will never be a Kurt Vonnegut or Abraham Lincoln -- try maybe Martin Van Buren or someone (good luck trying to get anything done with mutton chops like that!))

even after you turn
part, half, all the way around
you're still facing forward

a leaf does not lament its position
number 31844
on branch 86

it waves

green
and lush

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stop trying to carry yourself
open your eyes as your foot takes another step

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you'll never find a better plan
than the course the world has turned you to