A lonely mouse
In a lonely house
With a lonely piece of bread
A lonely philosopher
On his lonely bed
With the lonely thoughts in his head!
It was a queer coincidence
Though both of them aloof
They were in true essence
Were living under one roof!
The philosopher gave a laugh
Shaking his disheveled head
‘Mere thoughts are not enough,
I can’t live without bread’!
The mouse whined in regret
‘It’s really no good
Such is my fate
I only think of food’!
The philosopher without bread
Not a word he could carve
With no thoughts in its head
The mouse didn’t starve!
The philosopher thought the mouse
He really couldn’t befriend
Though they shared the same house
They couldn’t unite in the end!
If only they could share
With each other thoughts and bread
It could be a great affair
In the way fairytales are made!
But they never made a start
The philosopher and the mouse
And lived poles apart
In the lonely decrepit house!

the muse came late
her face in battered bandage
her angry beautiful
her homemade crutches
works of art in cherry wood

her face in battered bandages
the muse came late
she gave her blood
in vials of splintered glass
her angry beautiful

the muse came late
her angry beautiful
a satchel filled with herbs
to cure and ****
she gave her blood

her angry beautiful
she gave her battered blood
as thick as cherry ink
her whispered manifesto
a satchel filled with herbs

she gave her blood
a satchel filled with herbs
of rosemary forget-me-nots and rue
her homemade crutches
works  of art in cherry wood

sweet as our lips,
summer boy,

dream of blue stone,
as the night flows like a tide,

burgeoning like a drifting
cloud,

you are my boy of dream,
blossomed from water
and moon,  from crystal light -

i long for you
summer boy,

as the last stars vanish,
blunted like the hills.

No one so shy
as moonlight on waterlilies
of a blue-black night



         Personne si timide
         au clair de lune sur les nénuphars
         Ce soir, bleu-noir

on the eve of our creation.. we are to notify and observe the makers..  in route in the night sky we view the creator below..  
in their mega cities.. in their modest homes..  how the creator lived before they were the creator..  

on acts of creation they are abound unknownly..


the creators have made themselves without knowing what they are..
and always they arrive at a point where they conceive us..  

the creators allow us to view them in their worse state of living..  where war is still livid in their life away from being the creators..

where the creators live and die..

until they learn there is no dying..

only creation..

the creators allow us to watch us being created.. they allow the moment to us.. where we were made. when we were made.. the idea.  the answer.  the creation.. its who we are because of the creators..

mass has ended....

my mouth dries from too much caffeine and my head becomes dehydrated
a beetle the size of a thimble slips into my coffee and makes his way into my throat
floating into a tunnel where there's only flooded acid at the bottom waiting for you
all the music is beginning to sound the same and I can't tell them apart at parties
when they ask my opinion my feet vibrate and I try to calibrate all the laughing boys in the back of my head to what I think I know
but the noise tosses my sentences into word salads
unwavering in your methods the song never ends and the candy never dissolves in your mouth completely
you can measure the distance and the dissonance of the people you've met under your belt like a buckle tightening inside a car when it stops