"Bring me the sunflower so I can transplant it
to my earth scorched with salt,
so it can display all day to the azure mirrors
of sky the anxiety of its yellow face.

Dark things stretch towards brightness,
bodies exhaust themselves in a flow
of colours: this in music. To vanish
is thus the hazard of venturing.

Bring me the plant that leads
where blond transparencies rise
where life dissolves like essence;
bring me the sunflower crazy with light."

*Eugenio Montale

inside me
there is a door
rotating colors.

it opens
once I'm quiet.
my tacit breath smiles.

dimensions
merge together;
like a submerged view

of the sun.
vagary spirit;
feeling umbuntu.

She said, verbatim,
"I really want to kiss you.
    Is that okay?"
     And the fact that she asked that
       Makes it so okay it's frightening.

sometimes
there are rocks in my hands
and only tight clenched fists
can keep them from smashing
the mirror world below
into delicate shards of broken promises.
i long to float among the clouds -
one with the stratosphere -
but the rocks weigh me down
so that i cannot touch them.
reaching
but never reached.

people in glass houses
aren't supposed to throw stones.
so i am sure to keep locked
my loaded palms
hiding in plain sight.

only your lips
with homemade ice-cream touches
can coerce my stagnant fingers
to melt back into warm flesh.
skin bones knuckles joints.
i release the stones over a waterfall cliff -
rushing rolling rambling -
and they ripple in the water
and sink to the soil of the riverbed
making a home for fragile fish
in search of shelter.

Break my will, but not my heart
break your word, but not my heart
break my mind, but not my heart
it was broken long before the start.

Something about literature universally connecting people
something about verses that we can identify with
something about using words in the a way that makes people feel less alone
I see people using poems as band-aids
and poets writing poetry like their last saving grace
I don't know.
Some things hurt.
Some things burn
and bruise
and fester inside of you and run in circles around your mind
until it hurts to think about it any more
it hurts to read about it any more
it hurts to write abou-
my head hurts.
It hurts to write about this any more.

She's the kind of beautiful that pictures aren't honest about
Because some images are worth endless words

designing n expressing…
a field I chose,
as there’s no right or wrong…
where one can sing
one’s own painted song…

surfing the waves of life
ignorant of my inner strife.
I flew on wings of dreams
till I chanced upon, one day
on the spiritual door, up stream

spirituality then happened to me.
I equally happened back to it.
ever since its been a love lore

all boundaries now diminished
like baby inside mother…
the ‘doer’ and the ‘doing’
the seeker and the sought
have merged into each other…

is there an ‘other’?

‘love’ and ‘spirituality’ to me,
are one n the same thing.
both facilitate the connect of self,
oh so deep within.

the door to immortality
both hold the key.
let the truth unfold
you don’t have to plea.

love is my breathing,
art my signature,
spirituality my anchoring,
absolute soul my true nature.

My mind is
restless
at some number of minutes
past midnight and
I am high
on poetry:
an unnamed
addiction
- drugs -
I wish I had
some of those right now
(not that I'd
know what to do
with them).
I want to be
where the wind speaks
and everything
is directed
at the
moon.
I am an
animal
and I crave
wild nights and
the thrill
of desire
or I will have no choice
but to

howl.

If you're the blanket then I'm the stitches,
If you're the needle then I'm the mittens,
If you're the water then I'm the kettle
And if you're the rash then I'm the nettle.

If I'm the icing on the cake
Then you're the blow, the burn, the break.
If I'm the claws of a neighbour's cat
Then you're the nose of each dead rat.
If I'm the clock on the microwave
Then you're the cancer and the grave
And if I'm a schemer's dossier
Then you're the board on which he plays.

If you're the hair pulled at hysterically
Then I'm the teacher steeped in austerity.
If you're the cuff that's come unrolled
Then I'm the base camp unpatrolled.
If you're the tea leaves left behind
Then I'm the fortune undivined
And if you're the reason I'm capricious
Then I'm the reason you're pernicious.

If I'm the strap, love, you're the sandal,
And if I'm the drugs then you're the scandal.
If you're goodbye, love, I'm the foyer,
And if I am "je" then you're "tutoyer".