Sea breeze carrying scents
From foreign fields.
Blossoming sympathies reaching
Out over the fences of Lafayette
Cemetary.
Forest breath rustling leaves with
Faint animal musk and the
Serenity of centuries.
Still nothing smells quite like a
Young woman; bare feet and towel
Draped- fresh from
Shower
Passing.

The old man stares helplessly at
The way her ******* move as she's
Walking.
She not only lets him; smiles.
His best day since -57.
There's an angel for every
Purpose.

Something so
Interesting; wonderful; so ravenly
"Poe" in "poetically correct" about a
Poem of poets (what
Else would be the plural form?)
Gathering over thoughts, sensations,
Pictures, experiments,
Classics; poems and other
Poetry.

Poets!
You are the throat, tongue and vocal
Chords of the ******* universe!

Poets!
You are the for-ever-victorious
Gladiators of Human Expression!

Poets!
If either one of you ceases to write
I will hunt you down
And          insert violence

I will break your every finger and
Form
Quills of marrow and bone.

I'll watch as you write with
Those.

Juliette's back
is a shapely cello.
Her hair trailing softly
plays a deep, sad,
mahogany melody.
'La musique malheureuse'
her soul whispers.

But in the morning
she will stretch out,
throw the curtains wide
and light will shine through her.
When she speaks
her harp-like heart
will play a pretty tune.

Her still warm
Imprint on the bed
Body and
Wings

Feathers on whole
Pillows

I wake up in Heaven
Alive.

i haven't written in 3 days
and i guess i've lost my muse
cause lately, you remind me
of blank walls
and empty spaces
but maybe that defines
exactly what's become of us