Led by foreign madness, we
- to long expected sleepless graves -
will swim to sink and drown in numbers
weighted down beneath the waves
with nothing left inside but shadows;
no-one left of worth to save

In one end and out the other,
warring with psychotic pride, then
born again and made to suffer
- karmic purpose ill-forgotten -
each new chance at life, a buffer:
"Next time: change..." we chant inside.

Cycles written, history leaking,
sorely weeping through the pores
of growing wombs and offspring born
- another child of soulless form -
to breastfeed lies, imprisoned, shrieking
time again: disease repeating.

Sin ingested (soup for poor)
- the bile of shame and burden lost -
as people starve and lives are sold
and terrors planned to mind control...
and all the while our sickened bodies
hover, rotting, rank with worry.

Toll the bells - it's time to breathe
and **** this horror from our conscience;
steer ourselves towards a pardon,
pave the way, resume our garden
seeding spirit, heart, and mind
with growth to bloom for one last time
or we, the people, incarnating,
won't survive beyond our mating.

I stared at her
I knew then she’s unique
But I saw confusion
Still thinking if she’s real

I stared at her
Saw her lovely eyes
Not blue but brown eyes
It is so deep that I want to dig

I stared at her
She looks like always trying
I want to reassure her
That she’s already enough

I stared at her
I realized she’s beautiful
Even though years grew on her
There’s one thing I love about her

The mole above her right eyebrow

Then I put the mirror down
No longer staring at her.

What is it like
to make music?
It is skipping
on sunlight
opening your heart
to something strange
unexpected
something sublimely beautiful
in those sublimely beautiful times.

Sometimes it's a bust.
Sometimes a thousand degrees
of sweetness.

But when the music
plays through you
when you are not much more
than a spectator
to sounds emanating
mysteriously
from your lips
your lungs
your fingers

It's crazy good then.

There truly are no words
to express the miracle
of music in the moment
the player
listening as raptly
as the audience

It all comes together
at the end
and that's the lesson jazz has taught me.

It will all come together
at the end
in glory
or in sorrow
or both.

Most likely both.

Mist green seas
Sky of red
Mislead life
In side my head

Air so dense
Crushing my lungs
Wishing I were someone
I was all along

My head is spinning
My mind a race
Getting claustrophobic
In my own space

Wanting not knowing
Having yet stealing
Laughing as I cry
Sitting here grieving

Sky of read
Life mislead
Stuck with living
Inside my head