Should be,
Mother,
Father,
And a home.
28/3/2025

Today, early on a
Saturday morning, I'm
trying a little trick I
learned from Bukowski.
I put on some classical
music and I am trying
to write.
Beethoven's 5th in C minor.

I sit in my favorite chair and
watch my black cat lie on the
back of the loveseat and
watch the snowfall.
She looks triumphant,
but it could just be the music.
The philodendrons that hang
around the house and the
bamboo plants seem happier, too.
There's no hope for the palm tree.

Well, the main thing is that I put the
pen to paper, and Beethoven,
my cat and you came along for the
ride.

Maybe the cellos, violins, and
trombones will fertilize my
creativity.
Now, my other two cats have joined
the fun.
They wrestle by the heater and laugh at
all the fat, rich *******.

i pick an orange for my love
rough exterior hiding softer insides
the gentle curve, the sweet scent, the bright color
i peel an orange for my love
the rind falls to the floor like––
i hold it in my hands like i hold her heart
i eat an orange for my love
each segment curved like her sunshine smile
the juice dripping like––
my love is like an orange blossom
she blooms only for me

She runs in a panic,
as he draws his breath
Lost to his creative,
and her dramatic,

In the forest,
she cuts on thorns
bleeding,
as the one with horns
Believed Satanic

She backs behind
all the greenery
her skin is scratching,
But he's the Black Locust.

Screaming as the leaves,
suddenly become red
And no echoes no more,
or blood from the floor.