The sun
A bullet hole
Burning through
The grey-white sky
Waiting on a train
At the crossing
Traffic standing still
Graffiti strewn boxcars pass
Artful dodgers
On steel canvas'
Leaving their unsung scars
Smoky music fills my head
One of those moments
In my memory scrapbook
Thoughts of one who
Used to make me know
All was good with the world

The boxcars empty and the track dead ends
But they'll be selling tickets til the world ends
Gold dust and lies
Glittered dust and lies

You've got your visions but your feet our on the ground
You're gonna wander this whole big world around
Chasing the skies
Always chasing the skies

Saddle up, hit 'em up
Take to the skies
Ain't no make can catch you
but believe me boy they'll try

Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a ******
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.

My emotions are like a flower shop
You admire the beauty of the flowers up front
That you hardly notice the wiltering ones at the back

Wreaths & Sprays

Fancy Bouquets

All the promised

days

but the scars
on your arms
aren't as bad
as the screams
in your head