I write observing my own visions.
Seeing them come alive
as pen lands on paper runway.

OH to feed my addiction evermore,
as mind travels from line to line.
verse to verse, poem to poem.

OH to satisfy my own vibration,
and become explorer climbing
mountain peaks of script.

Oh to live in the reality of phases
where each word gets implanted
so others may excavate.

I write because I’m member of club
who needs outlet that becomes friend.
And so... I inflate
balloon in breath with ballads.
Poesies that just float away.

How to make a salad in a bathroom
Is like asking how low can one go
Why is this knowledge needed
When is it necessary
It is beyond me
How to make a salad in a bathroom
For whatever reason I shall answer
Salad is what you need first
Wrinkly as you in 50 years
Cut it with your razor-sharp mind
Like when you dissect your thoughts
and let them bleed
Until your mind is flooded
Add cherry tomatoes
The ones that match your brain, and your face
When you talk to someone you like
Next, onion, with its endless layers
Like the paint on the walls
Or people's personality when they encounter newness
Cucumber as cool as the toilet seat you're occupying
Thinking it as normal, in an Andy Warhol essay
Sweet Corn, sweet as the stain of soda on the floor
Sweet Corn the size of the bugs roaming in the corner
Add a little insanity
A pinch of self-pity
A teaspoon of unaccomplished goals
How to make a salad in a bathroom
Is the answer the one you sought?