criminal touch,        infractor that kills on paper,
torment me,
                    torment me,
                                        and let me dream of you,
- have you below the air

      i will  fall on my knees, like a leaf, when
the earth cracks from one end to the other, half awake,
half asleep,
        let me learn your firmness,  drown my eyes in every word,
- a blind man, with the tip of my  fingers i read your blood,
                                                          ­                    your lips -
chaotic, whispering:  - what a calligraphic writing, organized and
without mistakes,

let your rigor entice me, like a spear piercing you,
          passing through the air                        until we become experts,
specialists in criminal law

I sit here on
my 57th birthday
and listen to
Mozart in G minor.
I'm at peace, finally.
Gone are the
grass stains and
scabbed up knees.
I don't climb
trees anymore, but I
do see them.
The brilliant orange
and yellow leaves,
all cracked and happy.
I can smell pumpkin spice,
and hope smells like
a coffee crescendo.
I had fish for dinner.
It's never too late to
start eating healthy.
Life is a symphony.

it's not hard to touch you,

he asked me:
- did you hear the winds last night,
and how the tender branches bent on you
like wings,

i reached home late,
fed the dog,
sipped camomile tea,
covered with stardust,
and drifted away, like an echo, will

A canary flew
in my
window and sat at
my desk with
me.
It said,
who are you?
I replied,
I'm a base
poet that's been
dropped on
his head by life
a few times.
Eyes like a
kicked dog, and a
beard that doesn't
grow straight.

It chirped like
a Bach concerto, and
said,
ah yes, we are
all just dead
birds at the
bottom of a cage, tiny
lice crawling through
our eyes.
No song.
No light.

I said,
you're a strange
little fellow.
And we sat there,
like that, waiting
for 6:00 am
so, I could make
a beer run.

I hate these
******* gnats.
My apartment is
clean, not
sterile, but it's
where the heart is.
The floor is
swept, the dishes
are done, but these
******* gnats bother
me constantly.
I clap my
hands together,
occasionally killing
one or two, and then
I'm grateful that
God doesn't do that
to me.

I'm trying to
write, and these tiny
flying buzzards won't
leave me alone.
Then, a moth
bombards me,
fluttering around my
head and ears,
and I think,
what's than son of
a ***** going to
do to my Irish
whaling sweater?
It's 50% wool, 70 bucks.
I **** it.
Dusty *******.
I feel gratitude that
God doesn't do
that to me.

Don't these flying bugs
die when it gets cold?
I open a window.
Late October, maybe
there hasn't been a
frost yet.
I **** a gnat.
Perhaps I'd be
safer outside.
I need to do
some research.