I am Michael. I am like the cycle
of seasons and reasons, of choices and treasons.
I am that shade of blue that you see when you look over those springtime trees.
I am the wind. I am the rain. I am the excedrin you take for the pain.
I am an open window when a bird flies in. I am the broken screen that lets the buttery flies in.
I am the strength, the length, and the depth you would go to
when your dreams and your schemes and your deepest desires show you
who you really are. Where is your shining star
when you sit in the morning in your shiny new car?
I am heaven. I am hell. I am here to tell you
that none on this earth can convince or compel you
to be anything more than less than yourself.
Isn’t it funny? Aren’t we a pair? Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.
You with your feet on the ground, and me, in the air.
There are Debs, there are Caracoles, there are fried beans and frijoles; there are tacos and Nacos and I am the king
of choosing when to let butterflies in.