I've got a hippie van.
Well, not really--
it's only partially mine.
It's really this awesome
writer-artist-brilliant-person guy's.

Actually, it's no one's.
Because it doesn't exist yet.
But when it does,
it will be his.
It will be his.
And it will be mine.

The pair of us
we'll paint it garish colors--
in a tasteful way,
of course.

We'll stuff books into the back
upon which I'll sprawl
and sleep during long trips.
Or even short ones,
because I'm not like
all the other insomniacs.

When I wake up,
I'll grab a thick marker
climb up on the roof
and scrawl my heart and brain out
for the sun and the moon and the stars
to read.
Just in case they get bored up there.

He'll...he'll do crazy things
to the sides of this van.
This hippie van of ours.
There will be visages and designs
and things no one
can put name to.
And it shall be awe-inspiring.
I told you before,
he's awesome like that.

But the roof will be mine,
because I want to put things
out there in the world.
But I'm painfully afraid of
the work I do being torn apart.
I try to hide that.
So I'll mask it as quirky,
this roof-exhibit.
And leave the reading
to the silent skies.

But I'll put this right here
the words you are reading
on one of the doors.
Tacking on,
"See? Wasn't I right?"
Because I need to be
affirmed like that.

And the wistful rambles
of dreamers are safe.

Oh, but if only they knew
that within the whimsical
and the nonsensical
lie the most danger.
Because they're passionate,
oh yes,
but they're also soft
and fluid
and do not require defending.
And how do you fight
something that doesn't need
to be defended?

You can't.
So you'll sit there,
reading the safe ramblings
wondering how something
can just be there.

And my hippie van will pass you by.