To know life is to understand that we, each of us, is a lover, selfless, kind, demure–but also that we are, simultaneously, haters, selfish, cruel, avaricious; and that in that very contradiction, is life.

Cross legged
sitting in lotus pose
she blushes,swells
a white lotus
before the rising sun.
Palms are pressed
together in front
in a "Namaste"
to the divine, present
in everyone.
He is now just
some other, no special
eyes while closing tell.
How 'yoga' with the
higher self could  exclude
amour's special privilege?
Adamant to reclaim it
between  points of twin buds
his eyes vacillate,
her eyes closed shut, still
moves, lids peel a bit
lips curl and sent a hiss
like a hearty exhale
it sounded "decedent"

the crazies must grow
tired of their minds.

the way a flower
wants to walk
but can't.

it becomes tired of being beautiful
so it dies.

337

I know a place where Summer strives
With such a practised Frost—
She—each year—leads her Daisies back—
Recording briefly—”Lost”—

But when the South Wind stirs the Pools
And struggles in the lanes—
Her Heart misgives Her, for Her Vow—
And she pours soft Refrains

Into the lap of Adamant—
And spices—and the Dew—
That stiffens quietly to Quartz—
Upon her Amber Shoe—

I had this dream last night,
about a man
who spent years
wandering the yellow halls
of a moldy hotel.
Always at the end of the dream
he spends his time
hiding in the stairwell.
Up and down
down and up
he goes
hiding with every step--
            what is he hiding from?
        The people looking for him… I think.
He doesn’t leave the hotel,
he just keeps wandering
and hiding
all with great urgency.

The last time I had this dream
I nearly slit my throat.

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        "Why are you crying?"


         "Because you're so beatiful–
           and someday I will never be
           be able to touch you again."

























































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