The museum captures
sculpted with slender ideology
masked by the movement of diamonds
neither the sun nor moon could shield her
from the nature of desire.
she moves in her own way.
Art eclectic like that of floating stairs...
like her very own becoming
and circular patterns mimic
She takes steps toward
a painting of her own.
An almost perfect frame, she sits
under the tree
Sinking into a state of multitudes,
she buries her very own diamonds
in the heart
of the earth forever.
i spend three days in dreams with open eyes
until the last rose petal falls
silence writes "remember me" in italics
just to emphasize the disposition
in a space for two.
blurred visions of glass shatters
like a roll of film that leaks, stains blank pages
ruled by the very narrow lines of what could have been
and still could somewhere be.
and two toast to somewhere over the bridge
a touch with force to damage such glass
nearly transparent to mirror
this consequence of causality
and the knot that ties two tethered
will detach forever
like broken glass.
three divided into two
halves of hearts
logic, ideology, morality .. belief
I paint the walls in shades of green like leaves of grass. It grows and I talk about my days in paragraphs. How long can they survive in cold winter nights? To be frozen over is a risk I couldn't bare to take alone. How long can i stay awake to tear pages into pieces? They, like little leaves of grass, are frozen over. I look to the wall and see past pictures taped to what once was blue. Books marked by middle pages marked by red roses and letters never folded evenly into envelopes. The beginning is a reflection of the end, and one can not exist without the other. So I ask myself, what is the purpose of the lock without the knowing of its key?
patterns on her buttoned blouse
as to gemstones on his crown
glistening gold intrinsic
as to such history profound
he walks through crowds on narrow red
her days spent on narrow trains
libraries full of lessons
her journals filled with tattered pain.
stands on her doorstep moments many
his key stored still beneath the jade
while her footsteps echo corridors
and his love is truly trade
their bedsheets made of cotton too
moon full through window glass
held within the arms of others
two ghosts of someday's past
inspired by the crown
A colossal hoax of clocks and calendars.
Souls know nothing
of such mystic metric units
or the depth of discrete time.
Inner workings of existence
fails comprehension. Instead the soul
uses perception. There are two sides
to every story. Like that of the hourglass,
the shapes connect to share identical
moments. Without counting one by one,
the sand is sifted.
The passage of time - so narrow -
we can count on the fives of fingers.
There is no order to suggest repetition.
Our soul knows no names.
Parallels of reason reflected
as we look into glass mirrors. When
we fall asleep only to wake up
within a dream. We welcome love, without measure.
And if (our Soul speaks louder than words) we walk
through the passage of time, (like sand),
we will exist completely. Soul in sole
to encompass the depth and the surface
In a world full of rocks
there's a roll full of film
filled with photographs-
squares- like the infamous cube
To remind her that even colors
get oddly mixed up sometimes.
where memories rest.
And she sees,
in the eyes of John Lennon,
And she imagines, when she listens to
what would it feel like
to walk through a kaleidoscope?
It knows her soul
desire to fall in love with love itself.
Her energy is art,
but there is no use for picture frames
to restrict the flow of such creation
through solely just a window with purpose
to dream, to wonder-wander
time to time.
from one star to the next-
out of her mind,
Making music of her own.
And I look up from the surface
to see her presence on that lucky rock-
Planting flowers on the moon.
and the first thing she can't remember
is the difference between sleep on the floor
and sleep through the static.
and the last thing she remembers
is the thought of music
and how different it may sound upon the surface
of the moon.
cigarette smoke mixed with daydreams
while she walks across Abbey Road
into the center of the city
that she wishes knew her all too well,
but clock towers question
her timing too.
"the loveliest faces appear out of the
she often ponders the pendulum
and the consequence of her freedom
movement from place to place
person to person.
out of the blue.
at exactly meantime,
she walks alone
until she enters the telephone booth
that takes her into
a blue world:
unlike any other landscape
painted by Van Gogh himself.
It's the final Tuesday and the window opens on its own.
I'd stay for seven Tuesdays more, but alas
I'll let it be.