I seek and search.
down red brick avenues,
dusty winding roads.
Like Ponce de Leon
in pursuit
of that nirvanic utopian place.

See, I want to live
in a perfect world.
Is it too much ask?
A perfect world
where the three stooges
would be Chris Farley, John Candy
and of course Curly.
Because Larry was destined for punk rock
not Moe
because he was a mean little twit anyway.
A perfect world,
where farts come out
like butterfly rainbows
and smell like a candle emporium.
Where we’d all speak in French.
No fat grams or health clubs.
Where Kiona Reeves can act.
Like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz,
George W would get a brain.
Mike Tyson would get-help.
But in a perfect world
you wouldn’t have to be bright
or cool or on.
You can just BE.
No stereotypes
of being fat or skinny
ugly or old.
No Self magazine,
Vogue, GQ
Only People magazine
and all of us would be in it
you and you and you.
All wonderfully valued and treasured you.
A perfect world
where the angels
are Downs Syndrome children
because aren’t they the sweetest
angels already.

“Look, one of the seraphim is Joni Mitchell
singing songs from the BLUE album.
On a cloud veranda, there’s Bob Dylan
singing anything he wants to sing,
heck, he’s Bob Dylan.
And every song in a perfect world
would be sung with the pain and passion
of how Ben Harper sings, “Oppression”
or how Richie Havens sang “Freedom” at Woodstock.
Where God, would look like Frank Zappa
with legs like Tyra Banks,
would play two guitars
one like Hendrix,
the other like BB King,
and He’d belt out truth
like Martin Luther King
in sweet lyrics like Carol King
have hair like Don King
because He is the King of Kings.
But he’d have turrets
just to add a twist to the mix.
His throne would be a metal chair
in a tree shaded yard
surrounded by a perpetual drum circle.
And He’d have time to talk and listen.
We’d all have time to listen and talk
because there’d be no time clocks
or jobs or school,
to occupy our brains.

Yeah, no hate, war or hunger-
those are givens,
but what about loneliness
or failure-Nada!
It would be what all dreamers dream.
What the beat poets wrote about;
what the songwriters of the 60′s sang.
Where even Satan
would find his mantra,
or get saved
or at least commit to rehab.

But this ain’t no perfect world.
And when I think I’ve found it,
it pixilates and fragments
into its fallen sometimes horrific reality.
And I’m just a little weary.

But we have this,
You and me.
Maybe, if we can be real
and honest,
have a little understanding and love,
we can capture a perfect moment.
And for now,
perhaps that will have to be
enough.