there in the land of the wind
the grass would like to be as tall as you
the salt of the earth would be ringing,
resonant with the laughter of tears
perhaps everything we are
has to conceive a symbolic death
to deliver ourselves

in the embryo of words there is
such a gentleness, a true prophecy:
language would begin to forget itself
we meet in this language without words
like two beings from the end of the world

No one important
Days and nights all alone
All these little poems
Little black cell phone

              Roam Rome

California is getting punished,
For something unapparent.
Because they have the breath of Hell,
Burning through their front doors.
So for the love of the west coast,
Somebody save Malibu.

I'm going to finish my book,
I'm going to finish my work.
This time it will really happen,
This time it will really be read.