The sparrow has turned into a hawk.
I will not apologize for learning how to fly,
but I will apologize for falling in the garden,
trampling over the orchids as I took flight.
How is the sparrow supposed to fly,
knowing she tore the orchids to shreds?

<font size="22">“Can’t **** every day” is what he said
Hello, we don’t even.
Formal French frankly thrown away
Shock. No.
Scenes of SM and secret desires swirl to me
Wave of pleasure, literature of the flesh as well as poetry
All gone with the air of his breath. Breathe. No.

Can’t withdraw the ideas of fantasies
Can’t fight too long against love’s urges
Can’t deny to ignore them sometimes but
Can’t pretend to love him when his pride
As a male is destroyed, because his walking stick
Is askew, I’ve walked my path from California to here
Can’t always shush my fantasies’ atmosphere
I’m upstairs typing away my rage
On the from the start sensitive and ****** page
Wrote a book of poems full of mysteries and furies
Thought he knew it burned, bright.

Lyon, May 4, 2017

love  like  night  soul=  body  knowS  oh  words  2015  heart:  b­lack  time

tellS"  sound  want  say  dear  gonna  just  feel  desire...  thi­nk,  baby"

poetry light  away  kiss  gave  

way  day  america!   mind  beauty  rest  france  translated  make  naked  dream  

ski­n  eyes  written  fall   tonight  hold  used  kisses  blood  

long  lost  sea  poet  slow­ly  hope  new  sun.

4:55 am, snoring boyfriend is downstairs
SOUND asleep
I lie awake and seek to reach the deep
Well of sound and music, a poetic
Kingdom, I made my queendom
With. Never tried emjambments but well,
They seem to fit, they bring to thoughts freedom.

SOUNDS like my well-being
To write poetry is living
The instants to the fullest
Even on a cellphone my rhymes do not rest

I may SOUND poised and in control
But at first my poems were about pain and all
The things that poetry sublimates with her crown
I owe much of my style to what Ginsberg wrote down

My American poetic self is a committed eye with an everlasting passionate SOUND.

Reacting to the new dangerous trend of taking the ****** off in an until then consensual ****** act.


Dear America,

I strolled down your famous Sunset Avenue
Tasted the marine-inspired SF clam chowder
I had dreams about a Hollywood Undead venue
I had in mind Madonna, Monroe and their powder…

Dear America,

You gave me Ginsberg, Baldwin and Brooks
You gave me Hawthorne, Poe and Hemingway
You gave me strength and glory along the way
You gave me all my poems found in these books.

Dear America,

Today I want to tell you about stealthing
No I’m not talking about your crusade and sword
I want to tell you about a new trend and word
Consisting of taking your ****** off in the act

Dear America.

Irving told me he saw a desperate mother– it made me cringe
At the hospital, watch her son slowly pass and leave her
In his arm they gave him an against whatever AIDS shot syringe
This mother planted the needle in her arm.

Dear America,

The gay community was stigmatized because of barebacking
Horses of desire that they decided to tame
And you tell me your youths are, as we are speaking
Making love risking their lives, and no one is to blame?

Trumpets of shame I hear, crumbling the walls of reason
This brand new world to our bodies is nothing but treason
What is that? Is stealthing ****, America? I don’t know, say,
What was your reaction when they took your freedom away?

Dear America,

To the insolence of the 1970s youth, the recklessness
This generation responds with an air of stupidity
Go waste yourselves on the altars of dumbness
We won’t move a finger, to again witness this madness?

April 28, 2017
Lyon, France

The prince of the flowers of malevil
Sees the black creature
In the dark night, hard
Hallucinatory skin
The top note so pure
Heart, depth, body, under her shawl

She is woman, moving
In the author’s mind
The night of her mysteries
Does not follow the hour
Of day taking the earth
His perfume however perspires

Of the poet’s mind,
This is not a study
Letters can tell the difference
Between a worried passerby
And a non-existent love
For Baudelaire, skinny.

His ***** mistress
Of his desires and angers
His body makes him suffer
The poet writhes
Under the pressure and the spell
Of his harmful fragrance

Written on December 13, 2016
Lyon Metro
Translated on April 19, 2017

To Laurentin,

Black Lace

Underneath a tight corset
Bound by a sensual link
Black and satin, carnal
Lets the eye roam
The heart, so tightly bound
Cannot be left alone

So calm a beat
To his mistress’ steps
That he never fails to guess
Whether this silly lover
Could, if he moves her
Undo these pretty knots!

Written on September 8, 2016
Translated on April 19, 2017
Lyon