With my words, I conjure up Hell, and Hell takes the form of the familiar. This shell will double, and double, and double. Prototype for the archetype am I. She, the murk, will permeate; hive mind motherhood.

We can close the three-hundred and some odd mile gap
and stand silent for a second with our
                brainwashed gazes, glassy and glazed.
I’ll drive five hours to find the boy with the tired eyes—
the boy who made me promise.
                It’s for keeps.
We can spread a blanket and I’ll show you
the big and little dippers in the soil sky
                (they’re all I know how to find).
We can touch and whisper in a composition of exhales
and our two tongues that hide behind our four lips—
                yours that mask the gap I don’t mind,
                mine that I bite until purple and bleeding—
will drip with nectar, syrupy and saccharine,
which we will cup in half moon hands.

Painted bright blue sky
Line of green, separating
Heaven from Heaven

I've got seven green problems in my pocket,
I've got three halfhearted kiss in my mouth.
Am taking five sheets of paper to scribble
And am heading towards  the South.

My guitar holding my back ,
My sun-glass makes my eyes blue.
Home -I will never be
This is for sure to be true.

I've got some good company with me
And they told me they'll let me be free
They are the eternal Space and Time
As  travelers they can read My mind.

We are going to celebrate the life
with music and a little bit of wine.
My Shangri-la under the autumn sky
will keep changing with the universal time...