A woman, tearful and tuneful, on a trapeze in a silken skirt, balancing the days, she is 51 years old, her hair is wild and red, she wakes up each morning with a hum and a scream; she keeps a diary of forgotten days, of memories not yet remembered; she dreams of burning man, dust swirling all around her, building her own temple of lust and forgiveness; she wears a black lace garter belt with stockings high up her legs; she takes her time when there is none to take, and hurries herself when the days seem endless; in September, she flourishes, dancing in the shadow of the sun, all trees become climbable, each word spoken has meaning; she is not at all in love, but soon will be, she muses, he will be a fiddle player, tall and lean, they may never kiss, they may never make love, but the haunting sounds he weaves in their bed will be more than enough...

We die each night,
to sleep succumb .
Perhaps to dream,
remembering none.
Yet as we wait for
sleep to come,
we believe
we'll see
the morning sun.
Ten thousand million
days saw dawn
before the day
when I was born.
Ten thousand million
nights might end
ere ever I see home again.
If Being sees
in me no worth
perhaps this is
the last of Earth.
But as the Son
for mercy, dies.
Perhaps this good thief
too may rise.

such a speech may sound superfluous
as screamed in to the sky each night but know that
such a thing won’t hinder me.
a heavy heart is lightened only by such a redundancy
and to the sky
I scream,
each night I cry:
that if it were forbidden I’m sure you would hear my whispers,
but such a heavy heart
cannot be eased by silent storms
so I scream:
thunderous,
I scream as if I’ve lost my king,
I tell him of our suffering;
through harsh winds of our galaxy
I scream with my solemnity,
he shall indeed our agony take heed.
my voice may wander eons and in fact I hope it so,
for I do not wish to beg and I do not wish
to crawl(once you told me I was strong)
I shall be with you ‘fore long,
this in my consiousness I see
so t'wards this sky I scream,
and I shall scream with no disdain;
my king will guide us with his light again.

to the immaculately vain;
to the naivity of adolescence and the ignorance
of maturity;
to those who look with their eyes,
feel with their fingers,
savour that which is fed to us
as magnificence;
when you tint lips,
tone hips,
take your trips
please know that what you
see and touch and taste is mocking you.
your eyes are deceiving you.
for it is only the blind man who will recognize real beauty.

This is for the rainy days.
The heavy days,
Blanketed under a dark silver sky.

This is an image of
Timeless days.
Where both dawn and dusk
Fail to exist,
Because the gray never went away.

This is the light drizzle
Painting your glasses
With tiny cloudy droplets
That blur-out your vision

And makes the next step a mystery,,
As you pray
                  For a chance of sunshine.

This is for the helpless days.
Lonely days.
Where with every battle
Pits you against the world.
     And should you lose,
     Or should you win,
     Your victory is heard
            by only two ears.

These are the words for the
Mouse-like people.
The great number of quiet strugglers
Who say yes to the fat cat
                                  By Instinct!
So they won't be the meat
Of someone else's meal.
          \    \     \
But this is not to cast you down.
Not a giant- making pinching gestures
With people sized fingers.

This is a challenge!
A day to reach up into
Your oppressive heavens.
Cast aside the disciplinary
Blockade and- Breathe.

Breathe in the tastes
Of a life worth living.
Of the courage to be on your own feet.

And this is an urgency.
This is an urging that
All the doormat people
Sweep out from the heavy feet,
The ones you welcome for trampling.
Because|
               -You know exactly what you're
                 *Missing

Sweetheart--singles' night
Slick fake leather dream.
The long pink cigarette choked between
Passion-fire red top
And hell bent bottom lip

Delicious breath--
A car crash in your eyes.
The spike-heeled goddess who never loved roses.
You show your eye teeth in that
Slo gin smile.

Those thighs of yours speak to me
In another illegal language
A freight train made of flesh.