MARIA, LAY YOUR HANDS ON ME
PROTECT FROM THE WOLF THAT WANTS YOUR LOVE
WANTS ME TO BE HIS SWAN,
                                   HIS LILY
WANTS ME TO EAT HIM

BLUE OVER, SOMETIMES YELLOW
WHITE FLOODS
MONEY PROBLEMS HURT AND LEAVE WITHOUT
                                                                ­            WORDS
                                               ­                             WITHOUT
                                                                ­            WISHES
                                              ­                              WITHOUT SALT

HE WHO TOUCHES THE BACK OF MY NECK
AKNOWLEDGES MY WOMAN-ITY
HE OBSERVES NIGHTLY WINDOWSHOPS THINKING THINGS HE COULD BRING FOR MY GLORY
HE MEANS WELL
HE WANTS TO

WE KNOW THAT PAROLE SHARES WITHOUT ANY WORDS
I WAIT FOR THE BOY WHEN THE MAN COMES
STANDS AND STARES BY THE TREE THAT I SIT'N'SING ON
HE HOLDS COLD, HE SHOT WOLF -- NOW IT'S HIS TURN

MARIA, WHO WAS YOUR JESUS?
HOW WELL CAN TWO LOVERS HOLD WITHOUT EACH OTHER FOR YEARS ON?

Luck she smokes
coming out in clouds spreading all over
violent tracks grey noises breaking
dreams in sleep
slow waves
blending to blues when the sun is coming
out
breathing in back volumes of screaming alarms
ocean salt crunches in her morning bones
last time she was a mermaid
past life she was a Fortune
spinning a thread
sewing her dress
spinning later in dance
stranger creatures downstairs look great
finally staring at the spring sun
through fingers it burns
seems for luck
like a candle play of the past evening
reaching heat on the highest spot on the top
where she finds lucky solution
in the underworld kingdom watered with five wholesome oceans
room covered with vital rose blossoms
to the dusty pink noise
Fortuna goddess is dancing on her tip toes

where does the line between rose and blue lies
opposite directions meet me at the edging spot
is it a coma or a dot?
melody swings like bird sings swimming in sun dust
some silent men and women clear that noise in the time sun rises hold their brushes
clean streets today have no smell of spring
i paint a lot for that, the smell of start
my hands are aching drying out black inks formed to letters
formed into paws
long pauses
and a quick jump of a cat
chasing birds feathers
cry of help
breath in paint smell ,crush, cross, ruin that line
Imagination is fooling you
start the lies.

no cream can help to cure your featherless skin
Sunburns are breaking walls. isn’t it heartbreaking?
i bite my hands to the blood
meeting dead birds
they are the first flowers in spring
victims of unclear hands
turned out to be dusty paws
last breath of aching winter
long long time before rose blooms
it has her spines
sharpened before strike
no one can get inside your mind
line of thought is under words
line of rose is under spine
line of blue is under song
of a bird
carryied away with the gentle touch of a watercolored brush
of a woman
or a man.