I'm blinded by your kindness.
Science doesn't do it for me.
I know that you know God,
by the way you treat
your fellow man.
Baby, you're a Saint.

A new page turns:
it’s midnight
and all I see are dreams and glimpses of her,
the ink from her snake tattoo
dark on her wrist like a passing shadow,
lean fingers layered with gemstone rings,
jade feline eyes swallow me and spit me out.

I want to pull you in,
and trace the ink written on your skin.
It feels like stories to me,
pages and pages of words
transcribed along the flesh of Aphrodite.
And, oh, to touch with is untouchable—
the more I long for you, the more the venom
of longing seeps into my untouched heart.

in times
when wars create
terrible chaos unexpectedly
obsessive heads of state
allow their armies also
to  attack civilian targets
killing thousands of innocents
in theaters  churches  hospitals
just to show
they can

in times like these
what can a poet do
   in addition to feeding some NGOs
except find words
to tell the wannabe dictators of the world
that they are really tiny souls
desperately trying to gain global recognition
with their bombs and their artillery  
just to show

apparently they all are unaware
that they will be remembered
not as the saviors but the butchers
of their devastated nations

the recent decisions of SCOTUS
show the mind of the previous POTUS
who’s stuck in the past
and cannot but blast
everyone who belittles his SCROTUS

as Boris' wild rule begins ending
he enjoys his last days, and depending
on who will succeed
and might be in need
he hopes he could still be upending