poppies and ponies
time twirling woven blanket
plum-blossom undershade

As everything bright must transition to night,
so too comes the evening of all my graces:
the sands, the salts, the waxing wine;
the hunt-and-pecks in diverse places.

Pour me another cup of almonds, then,
only this time make them into milk....
...why bear the texture of harsh fabric,
when your lips could be gliding over silk?

yellowtree yelling
at stalwart stacks'
thick black clouds.

yellowtree dying
under smogspace
frowns, drowns.

red airplane:
whir whir whir.

red airplane:
whir whir whir whir whir

over cliff
under sky
in the currents:
fly fly fly
ᶠˡʸ ᶠˡʸ ᶠˡʸ ᶠˡʸ

The moon above Maracaibo
Deigns to lower its great arm,
Sending broad white streaks
Across the mighty dark.

Around the lakeside chanting
Songs of the evening hum,
Couples dwell beneath her,
Drinking their watery ***.

The moon above Maracaibo
Likes to glint in your glass,
Tasting a bit of that mixture,
Dabbling in perfect romance.

But when the day arrives
To turn the blue grass green,
It waits for pitch-black night
To make Maracaibo sheen.

Calais was a small disappointment,
And Ams-too-**** good to be true,
So while the red orb is yet to set,
I'll clear out my debt,
And try to forget,
And gather fresh hope on the morrow new.

Vesoul, that was my destination:
I gave up Quebec and Madrid!
Gladly forsaking old
Constantinople, for
Paris awaited my trip.

But I can't make a living in Bangkok,
With poncy jazzmen such as these.
The coffers of kings are busted and broke,
And my heart craves more
Than ashes and smoke,
So tour Guatemal', if you please.

Goodbye to pretty Latakia,
I turn from your shore with such sorrow.
Your flowery air I long to breathe,
Instead of standing alone in the street;
I want to return in a golden-fringed dream...
And gather fresh hope on the morrow.

The flat island floods
for want of a ****;
the land turns to mud,
the landsman alike;
  cursing the robin,
  the jay and the shrike.