Mutted sounds
The city sleeps... traditional
Rest...closed shutters
Against the heat....skies white
Blinding, implacable
Brurnt, liquid: coupolas baking
Through centuries of glazed splendor
My lover's breath on old fashioned
Sheets: starched, crip...ironed flat
Our bodies recouping
In the cool inner wall... welcomed presence
Nary a sound...inanimate objects
Enrobed in silence
Languid , heavy, waiting for the shadows
Announcing night's fresh enconter.
Colette Anne Naegle

copyrights 2005

Spots of blinding light glance off the river
Reflecting apollo's fiery descent
From the west enrobed in smoky silver
Luna begins to carefully ascend

She whistles violet purple black and blue
To chase her brother's chariot away
Painting the world a sparkling darker hue
She unfolds glist'ning night as if to say:

It is I the giver of the earth's rest
That you with little faith have letted fear
And spurred yourselves with stories un-celeste:
Lies from my brothers mouth and to your ear.
This hour go out and put the truth to test!

In dark alone the soul will find repose
A tune of cosmic peace does black compose.

Unfinished


Emptiness a question enrobed in nothingness stillness cries across the void in its intolerable
State you stand the will wilts the eyes portray defeat and sorrow a searching longing is plainly evident

This powerful demanding current must be appeased chaos screams the idle continues his dreams
Faltering movements are all that is known a stationary seizure pervades the deadliest image an old

Amusement park dead and deserted a mocking sign proclaims thrills inside the torment rushes like
A stampeded herd it threatens sure death your own plaintive dead voice is heard in this arena of

Dispirited dashed hopes a mauling traumatized and once energetic hope filled spirit that trouble
Assailed Then fell back and then with the genius touch as you reeled it simply fell away your steps to

Recover Also ceased with the careless and deadliest words of all what is the point this has become your
Standard if titled in great black letters it would read lackluster lying in the dirt whipped defeated

Disgusted exiled in oblivions nowhere hope has had the first letter changed to D yes Dope in capital
Letters little do you Realize this is the very act of reconstruction the best military force in the world

Engages in this kind of training someone who has potential is the tried and true diamond in the rough a
Superior force is needed take the outward restraints off by reducing the individual to his base when you

Have destroyed the unfavorable elements then begin the renewing process that is clean and absent of
Impurities build with tried and true methods that produce heroes from fired kilns the blaze flared and a

New form emerges pure as refined brass but the man or woman is steeled into purity and honor and is
Made ready to pass into combats immortal glory whether it be military, business, or sacred duty of the

Church know this before just a nameless conflicted person little thought of will do exploits he will put
New building Blocks in societies ever increasing wall and maybe ultimately he will fulfill the words of

Jefferson and by blood sacrifice his patriotism will cause the tree of liberty to flourish because the call to
Fight for peace is never finished

There's a frenzy around ID cards
when you're fifteen
an excitement like trapping bees in an airtight jar
which cannot be replicated as an adult
although the behavior is the same:
     Criticize the picture
     Berate oneself for being
     A human with height and width and coloration

Then there's the barber shop mirror replication of self
the meta-selfie of taking a picture of one's ID
and posting to
     everything . . . ever
so you have a sounding board for your self-aggrandizement
     enrobed in self-deprecation like
     a chocolate-dipped madeleine
which will inherently lead to a
knitted afghan of praise and adoration
which was entirely the point

Then there's the dismissal
the abandonment into a wallet
from which it will never escape
living out lifetimes ad infinitum in vain
never recognizing the worth of

Your student ID
113809

which identifies you
but is not you because

You could never be so two-dimensional

Of the hospital
I sat clenching a leopard
filled with beads.

Father beside me
Tapping his chestnut wingtips against
the bloodless linoleum floors.

It was September. The heat oppressive,
Like the Moors toward foes
in the Iberian Peninsula.

Rays illuminated the woes of those ‘round me.
A barrier existed
emanating from within

Fleshed out by a zeal, to not be                                       on one’s own
At the dinner table, as Father responded
to a **** addict’s violent implosion on Nile Street.

At Carmel-by-the-Sea building sand castles to be
--washed away by the tides
on the bay enrobed with fire
Fleshed out by a desire to be

dethroned.

Fulfillment flooded the lobby,
Father ceased his tapping,
A Florence Nightingale lead the way

past bland white doors,
past elderly covered in black crusted sores
past a priest who pours a libation.

In to the room of your entrance,
Nearest and dearest gathered ‘round
the blemished linoleum floor

Warm cries hollowed down
the halls, signifying your existence
Clenching a leopard

filled with beads. (Now in the attic)
Mother Rose freckled and content
Embraced you, as the world still spun

My eyes a maelstrom of red yellow and black,
seeped streams of grey streams of grey
for the loneliness fleeted that Autumn day.

Will write this to counter ugly in all of its forms can we will change we can reel from effects we
Can go to a better place into the heart of a picture a lady an enchantress beguiling from nothing
More than beauty and innocence a tide pool a living riveting showing one woman but all
Women the alluring tastefulness eyes that cause a gentle storm a face that bestows peace
Undefiled we must attend these wayward places like a cottage in the English country side
Covered in ivy the inner sanctuary is a blend of darkness and shadow the very movement of a
Woman engaging withdrawing it is awe inspiring this royalty is possessed by all females their
DNA reads incomparable wistful smitten with delights obscurity is in dwelled with fabrication
Silk satin a man meets a woman moments later talking to a friend you think he has been to a
Fashion show the truth he has nothing softer more elegant exists her portent is the floating of
Clouds endowed enrobed with the telling witching mist like countenance you find you are
Uprooted you are drifting into throes of unpredictability excitement wafts rolls plunges you into
Paths of exquisite wildness that is anchored in many fathoms of emotion stand at the rail of a
Great ship you have no control it runs fast across great waters you’re illuminated by the lightest
Blue a water made magical by the sun striking it in just the right way swayed you stagger under
This ghostly moon silent weeping grips you what world am I possessed by you have found true
And lovely depths of womanhood no other gift would God give to man than this perfection
Honor it and curse any fool that denies her rightful place she is not chattel or a subjected
Servant she is blessed and all she is and can be will be your guide and unending support if you
Are wise and know who stands at your side even the Holy word says her long hair is her glory
You are never mocked when you praise her you are building the hidden treasure up to another
Level you see her and you tremble not knowing why you have made the queen ready to be
Ushered into to her castle and sit next to you on an earthly throne the resplendent light is
Blinding it burns up all impurities something has to begin with intrinsic value to advance beyond
Its beginning stages if a man finds a virtuous woman he has found great riches and she will add
To his stature without measure just a few thoughts on my favorite subject God bless all women
And to those who eyes are brimmed with tears know they are not allowed so you will be cast
Down but they are valued in heaven greater than diamonds they are the liquid transformation
From paths of poverty to the beholding of unmentionable riches you were built with that
Potential any one acts differently to that respect I respectively lay at their door that they are
Unwise and they are falling into unruliness and shame themselves and the true dream they
were created to be

I sat next to Death
In a ***** and dark barn.
"Take a swig of ***
And taste the smoke, brother.
I'm cooking humans,
Like pine-nuts, in the cauldron. "

She said, smoking a pipe.
"In the dry and gray wilderness
Called 'life' I got them;
They are, like oysters, food:
The shells of flesh houses
Tasteless and slimy mucus,

The watery rheum of the soul,
That some God in there sneezed. "
"But such oysters have no pearls?"
My ambition asked.
"Nearly all, not" Death,
Chewing, belched:

“But the heart of some
Rots and inflammates in strange islands:
The dreams, the fantasies,
The most durable daughters of the soul;
But even such diamonds I break
And eat like peas porridge."

And at that I rose disturbed
By Death, who I could not trust
And went about my way.
"Come back soon, dear oyster."
Called the woman enrobed,
"For Death finds all, eventually."

Listen:

for some reason (truly unknown)
people call me when their trips turn turbid;
when palsied limbs jitter,
and eyes (rolled-back) flitter.

Maybe I've got one of those faces.
You know, the ones that
(between forehead wrinkles
and laughter dimples)
let her know it's okay.

Maybe I've got one of those faces.
You know, the ones that
(between penny-sized pupils
and long-haired scruples)
let her know I've been there before.

I could hear, with jaws clenched,
a deep-seated anxiety born
beyond the scope of a point
or a dab; of a joint or a tab.

And I know that trepidation;
that unending uncertainty,
interlaced -- intertwined! --
intimately with self-searching.

So, I told her about the day I found myself.
I was in a cliff-side cave, at around dusk.
Conflagrant cloud-bursts bowed to the sun
and my battered being bent along with them.

Roiling waves, gnashing madly on the serrated shore,
met my gaze with an equally unnerving force.
A melancholy crimson bathed the frothing maw,
like everyday pitfalls surely lead into that jaw.

I rolled over, away from the ledge, to another surprise:
the cave in which I was laying was only a disguise.
Stars! All the stars! Spiraling macrocosms now no more
than motes of dust floating aloft and astray.

I saw the dome of the cave come unhinged at the seams
as the million billion myriad suns erupted outside, exposed.
The volcanic initiation left floes of iridescent star-shine
eddying, diffusing into a vague effulgence.

Then the moon billowed out, with her gossamer gown
flowing streams of silvered dreams behind.
And the flowers (though the fangs of winter's
bite clamped down into their nape)

bloomed in unison -- in unified exaltation -- to herald her return.
Rose buds burst, and the lilies -- the lilies, I remember the lilies!
Rose buds burst, and the lotus -- the lotus, I remember the lotus!
I saw them rise up in offering, only hoping to touch her feet.

But each, at peak perfection, could only unfurl their last petal
and fall back down, below other (faster rising) worshipers.
Again and again they rose and fell; and ebbed and flowed.
Between their birth and demise, they embraced each other

in a mesmerizing dance, around the stems of friends and older plants,
towards divinity with leaves grasping leaves, and thorns grating thorns.
Enwrapped -- enraptured-- in foliage sewn rags; enrobed -- enshrined --
in coliseums fanned with fronds and fragrance (sandal and cedar)

I found myself.

Meaningless Void
Seeking the real in shadows the big picture lost all of life you missed the signals they come not as a
Storm but tenderness embodied enrobed in a shroud of mystery you have to listen intently that is the
Way with important things they demand your respect and quiet still heart before written words and
Verbal conversation of great depths will flow uninhibited your mind lies as a wasteland much is on auto
Drive simple easily figured stored in common compartments what about golden words uttered in them
Wisdom that bears sacred depths thick as a mist it touches every fiber you stagger by its wonder
Mankind befriended within the folds of fields valleys you step with feet plagued with error stop, there
Are myriad lessons that would fill the darkness as pleasant sunlight you can carry handfuls blow it softly
Furrowed brows will soften react a smile will attest if your words are right or not fix your eyes on the
Stars they are bearer of good will there is one who knows their names individually you are not on a
Journey of events that are just strung together in any way but they are ordered and you are blessed to
Be on a journey of discovery but by indifference and callous crude behavior you twist your very life into
A straight jacket of mean lifeless riddles that benefits no one and secures disaster at the end you were
Created for highest expression but you quickly settle for the mundane two natures coexist you have the
Right to take charge follow the burning path but in so doing you will know the pain of impurities being
Set to the flame one path will bring division and utter loss the other unanimity peace born from much
Conflict will satisfy the earth where others denounce their own destiny with small lackluster living take
The wind as a guide your beginning will be feeble but as you grapple in this strange hard place you will
Find store houses you thought only existed in dreams on a parched land you turn and by this uncommon
Effort you pour out channels of rich water an irrigated land buds forth it runs back to the day you
Refused to be denied understanding that in ordinary grace a life of service could flourish by being a giver
Instead of just one who grasps you change even nature especially yourself the void is surmounted
freedom is the highest honor any can bestow and leave to others

This is my poem without words
        my poem of images enrobed in
    oppressive silence like the
        pressing of a Salem witch
    who is really just a girl in tears
   and a bonnet:
You asked what I would do
    if you died and I said
  "I would have you cremated and
   I would have your ashes,
    at least a bit of them, mixed
         into a bit of red glass
    fashioned into a heart-shaped
  kiss and
   I would wear it around my neck
        on a silver silk chord . . .
             a silver silk chord . . .
             except when I venture out on
              a date with a familiar stranger
            because you will not
                                              have been introduced and
               the rest of you
   I would sprinkle here and
        there to haunt the old brick
buildings I love and the sharp angry
mountains you love and
                              here and
        there to feed the verdant
grasses our toes haven't ever moved."
    You raised an eyebrow
        askance, saying,
  "You've thought about this quite
     a bit,"
but this is a lie I let you hold
    a pork bun of a brown bird with a
        backward-bent wing
which you rest in a wooden puzzle box
  wrapped in a velvet pouch
    sewn into a heart-shaped pillow
      locked in a three-sided room
and on the ceiling
   a hand-painted truth:
        I never thought the choice would
  **be mine.

If I could be anything, I would be the cavernous moon that hangs above your head as you sleep. From dusk until dawn I would keep you safe, enrobed in the glow of my cold milky light.
*If I could be anything, I would be yours.

I can't imagine the trees
Looking any other way
Than the way they do right now

In the winter
I can't imagine the naked skeletons
Clothed in springs blossoms

In the spring
I can only wonder how they'll look
Once the tiny, baby-fresh greens uncurl

In the summer
I cannot see the lush foliage
Enrobed in the reds and browns and golds

And in the fall
I try not to imagine how the trees will look
Stripped bare and cold and bleak

I often can't imagine
Feeling any other way
Than the way I feel right now

Some days I feel cavernous
Like the world around me is caving in
And I can't imagine where laughter comes from

Some days nothing could stop me smiling
Joy fills me up
And I fear the next time when it feels like
The emptiness will go on forever

The chessboard is patterned in onyx and white.
Yellowed ivory are the pieces she plays.
The King is in Jeopardy; her options are few;
Death’s Jet pieces are against her arrayed.
Her opponent is fearsome; a skeletal Knight,
enrobed in a caftan as dark as midnight.
Each move she makes falls before the plan
of the specter’s outstretched bony hand.
As she pauses to ponder if her next move is wise
Her spectral opponent assumes a new guise;
“it’s your move, Dolores.” Her opponent now said
in the guise of her husband, some twenty years dead.
By now almost all ivory pieces are gone,
leaving her only her King and one pawn.
She moves to defend but no chance can be seen
in sending a pawn out to battle a Queen.
Once more her opponent assumes a new face;
Her beloved lost Daughter assumes her Dads place.
She has fought long and hard; long past hope of gain.
Now draining fatigue saps the strength from her frame.
“Mom, it is time to resign without shame;
None can deny you gave Death a good game.”

I


These walls of my prison hath endured many ,                
suffering and suffocation,                                                     ­            
to me, they are the sweet calling of                                 
 liberation.  

Nature, how you reminisce life and death,                             
come to my disposal today,                                                         
a­nd see the man.                                                                              who will dance at his decay.

When the noose tightens round my neck,                                        
I shall be smiling at the angel of death,                                             
who hath finally come to my rescue, O you lightening! Then   show yourself, mark the moment when my misery is dead.        

II                    
                                                                ­                                                 This world hath been my prison, my life thunder accursed.    The day I was born, I heard wars emerged.                                 
My mother who awarded me life showered me with love,            until I was poached at five, by a human trafficker.

He took me to a land far way.  ****** hades,                
enrobed me in smelly rags and paraded me through streets.       Since I wasn’t pitied, he cut my left hand.                                  
And hence came a shower of pennies.  

Pennies that went in his pockets and                                   
sufficed his villainy.                                                        ­                     
I was granted a plate of grub in return,                                        and perhaps no whipping if the pennies were his satisfaction.

And he comes home drunk one night,                                          his inebriated body betraying his senses.                               
Ready as a bird who is to take flight,                                                
I slashed him with his own dagger violating his defenses.

III

Henceforth I began to tarry,                                                         penniless and aggrieved.                                                       ­        
The world hath plenteous monsters,                                             
and I met my piece.

As I slept on the frozen streets of this cursed land,             
hunger clenched my stomach.                                                      Sick was the art of begging, a remnant of my stained past,      
but I knew no other.

Outside a fruit shop, I saw an old man buying yield.                     I fell at his legs and begged: “Prithee give me a morsel of food,    it wilt save my life."                                                                     ­   
But **** he gave me too much and taught me slavery.                                       
With my one hand,  
I swept his house and dusted his medallions.                          
That he hath earned courageously                                                  
on­ blood bathed battalions.

And one day, his ruddy daughter comes back home.              
Her name, Messina Oehme.                                                           ­  
O Messina, whence thee hath come from, paradise?                 Thy pulchritude is a vision fixated within my eyes.
                                                                ­                                                  Thou art like the first rain in a desert,                                             or an Alchemist’s prized long-yearned stone,                               At the touch of which,                                                           ­        
even dust turns gold.
                                                                ­    
Thy eyes deep wells of lust,                                                       
wher­e I want to see our future compart.                                    
Thy pale skin like the fantastic summer sky,                                 
a glance at which burned my heart.

I quoth, O Messina, let me not smolder alone in passion,      
thine art my souls only desire.                                                    
Even the grace of saints,                                                        
couldn’t unshackle me from love’s holy fire.

But misfortune hath come my way.                                            
Thy swinish father wedded you off to that wicked Glover.    
And at thy wedding I fixed the chairs,                                         
thy one sided lover.

But O Messina! Thy art still the summer that brightens my life.   I became an hourglass, thine love, my sand,
slowly pouring to the bottom of my heart, 
yet never vanquished from my soul’s devastated land.
                                                           ­                                                       And I remember when thee came to stay at father’s house.
I saw wicked Glover bruising thy angelic skin. 
He hurt and discolored an angel. 
The heavens thundered in protest on this mortal sin.

Rage devoured my soul, as I heard thy shrieks,
more horrific than the trumpet of doom.  
I picked up my dagger and impaled his heart.  
If evil fails to transport a fiend, then love does, to his tomb.

That madman deserved his pudh death. My dear Messina,
thee wilt live free. But thee looked at death empty and desolate heated. I quoth: “I gave you my life.”  
That was the last night I saw thee, thy love defeated.  

IV

Why a man who loved so incessantly,  
will end up hearing the knell. 
Prithee God, if heaven at a fountain of love, 
Make my fate into the fire of hell.

Even if I write as much as the sea,
I cannot explain my misfortune in epistolary,  
Who wrought dole dost naught justice, 
to some it gave fulsome, to some nary.

The branches are enrobed in ice and hang down to the ground.
The air is sharp, clear and fresh, no other soul around.
The winter wind chills to the bone despite your coat of down.
It whispers to the branches with a low and mournful sound.
I’ve loved the park on days like this, since when I was a youth
This photograph in black and white, betrays a simple truth.
Each color needs the other; there is no other way
to capture, in this image a timeless winter’s day.
Each hue defines the other, in stark relief they play.
I am one accustomed to see in shades of grey.
As I was born color blind, I know no other way.
Earth’s greens and blues are beautiful; I’ve heard but never seen.
The doctor says that I was born with a defective gene.
Somehow I have adapted, I deal with it you’d say
To see the world in sunlight like you see at break of day.

Dressed in effervescence,
All drunk through of colour,
Woven loose with counterpoint,
Singing in swelling crescendo!

Oh, how did you ever taste of constellations?
Set adrift on your oceans of moonkiss liquid velvet and
Dancing to the beat of lapping water and frigate birds.
You return to me sometimes,
All odd hours and confusion with your compass,
Somnolence and promises and
Twists of intermingled breath.
A cup half-drained my heart beats the same in
Dash and rhythmic countenance.

The perch of my lips, the curve of my jaw...
You're woven in the knit of my brow
But your map's all mayhap, crumple and
Softly spoken whimsy, folded twice and
Sealed with sighs and dreams of distant islands.

Farewell, farewell... ah, fare thee well with your gifted currents
And boat you've wrought of nothing more than your own
Cupped hands, enrobed in light and riven through
With loosely jointed daydream.

I may have never been the light of your life but you were mine. Recently when people voice the word ‘therapy’, it elicits in me a feral sort of anger. It's a routine: rage, panic, and exhaustion.

My mother’s quaint china dishes have found a steady home on my sienna wooden floors. Please understand why I taste acid and rancid flesh when I think of your hazel eyes and strong arms. My Tracy Chapman record echoes monotonously out to me, but the blood simmering in the grooves of my brain fills my ears with a sound that displeases my auditory senses. It sounds like static from a broken radio. The wind howls through the cracks of my windows and sometimes it cajoles the door open. Somehow, my penchant for you never fails to disappoint me as my eyes flit up for the briefest second to see if you've arrived. I use my teacups as wine flutes and my heart as a pincushion, but maybe your broad shoulders and firm chest could shelter me from myself. My desk stands proudly in the corner of the room. Enrobed in dust and half-eaten pizza slices, it stands proof of what you've done to me. Mr. Teddy is taking a nap. His cottony, soft, white insides poke out in tufts from under the patchwork.
Another one bites the dust.

The poison seeps through the gaps in between my teeth and panic swallows me like an ocean. If you want, I would clad your feet in my shoes but I have never been one to chase after something so I cannot fathom how to explain to you why they have holes on their soles, much like my soul. The towel pools at my feet as I feel the heat behind my eyelids start to cool. Exhaustion sweeps over me like a summer breeze. I can hear fast cars as the put me to sleep.
It smells like petrichor; wet earth after the storm.

Beyond compare, you as a spring day
Beauty recedes, you are the debate
And every fair from you would decay
Bud and breeze stunned, never mate.

Sometime, too hot the sun shines
And often in your fairness dimmed
Every fair from fairest descends
In you beauty's course change rimmed.

Would the eternal spring ever fade?
Or possesses you and carry on
Bless the enrobed, Yacin a shade
Eternal are the lines, the minute he's born.

For life and as man can see
These lines will live, and give life to thee.

night fell,

clouds
crowding
a tumultuous sky.

in the darkening far,
houses alight into homes.

near, top of the hill,
bells await
enrobed
in the lit silence
of the tower,
lighthouse
in a darkening dark.

time
will pass by,
hurrying,
carried by the
echoed ringing
into a dissipated horizon.

far, far,
the stroke,
the echo,

reverberations
cradling
some melody
on loneliness.

g) Reflection Temporality

In cavern series, the lava was converted into cations of hydronium, in subterranean sinkholes that softened in the timelessness of Tsambika when the homily was officiated.  Some pieces and calcareous boulders, rotated ramdonic  by the humid and dark narrowness of the anthropic reflection having lived in the heavenly paradise that formed them by the volcanic tube and its syngenetics, by the erosion of the subsoil of Rhodes. The mental rock icons expired of the symptoms, with albuminous cliffs in the genetics of the Theoskepasti chapel, Etréstles carried under her arm the contract of expiration of the Universe, to deliver it with her signature, for the will of dimensional transfer. Everything Bloomed with attractive mineralization systematizations, under an astral dosage, with trace elements from distant galaxies converted into particles of an end of evolution, condemned to gravitational spilling origins of Hera and her lactations in compound stellar analogues, towards the disdain and backlight of her own emission of the spiral, uniting the irregularity of its transit in revolutions and bars of filings, making the entire face of the earth undaunted but delivered to a temporality, with much sovereignty from a terrestrial planet ..., but not from a universe to another in fusion!

In the cognitive, Kanti memorized his wanderings in Crete, imagining his physical body united with his mind on the paths of the shoulder of his ascendancy, with batches of clockwork that went and passed through his physiognomics, bathing with the piece wind, but also with They yielded with epistemological globes, but levitating in excesses of the shoulder and the unknowns, for states of temporality that became mentalized in pursuit of a supra desire ..., ailment or long-standing typologies that used the supposed ontological formalization, diffusing the property of the body with advanced memory towards a new duality. The officialization of Ars Choralis, solemnize for processes of emotional property; In this way the cave of Being and its Temporality is lofty, isolating itself for intra-cave investigations, as corollaries of agility in those who yearn for identity, being able to attach themselves to deities in tens to epicene, which would be from tens to ten, thus being seventy tens and a half, which would be seventy-five of the seven tens and of the unconscious of the phrase that Etrestles carried away, separating the syntactic of the Vas Auric hypothesis, in order that they coexist ..., although the pestilential decants before the syntactic of Kanti's enrobed head. Untreated and conscious-unconscious to his instinct, resorting to and harassing the prodicedemental bars of the Ergo Sum parameter. The temporality of reflection, In momentum ac Diadem, shone from the third trumpets of the Seventh Seal to the potential of the twilight corrodes and its regions that made the hard shoulder the awareness of a temporality reflected in the required and dismayed collectivities, to transcribe exhorts to the behavioral pattern of temporality and love faust. Little remains immobile, little drive when two masses of consciousness withdraw to the warehouses of the Universe already advantageous from their exhaustion, but inheriting them in active emotions towards the preconscious factors, on the heights of the mountains of Crete and Kímolos.

Kanti the steed says: “Deus Nostri Pontificatus annis et ad eum, God is my pontificate and my way to Him…, Adonis in relative absence of credit, before Ephebe with absolute deafness, being surprised here in the Diospyros and his escape from neuro archetype. I ride farther than my physical-emotional, contributing in the micro-fusions of the tubules, in quantum and interacting with the fineness of the miniscule substance, within themselves. Almost injuring the storms that vibrate in mine from the risk prop of a steed, in pursuit of a trance that only ends up being the architect and augur of knowledge ..., of when and where I die more than once, but within the limit of the crushed Duoverse At his own risk, evaluating himself steadily from the transfer of a whole genetic force in solid steel hooves, but of ornamental and Reflected Temporality. I am a witness to the signing of the contract that everyone who did not look convinced and unanimous, but Hellenika awaits us ...”

i cannot dream
when enrobed by concrete
crumbling, desecrated
and peeling walls
kids used to play
past dark
bikes whizzing under street lights
but doors opened to us
and swallowed us whole
with teeth of televisions
and saliva of anxiety
sour, putrid, reeking
it still blows over my face to this day.

i crack a window.
and it is noon
i am six years old
watching the field,
(i can hold it in my little hand
like a ripe, green grape)
sway under the weight of
imaginary children's footsteps
and beloved animal paws
i am ten years old
and i listen
but it is still
except for the drone
cars and cicadas, on and on and on and on
my world holds its breath
until it becomes dizzy