My niece
made me bangle
of letters, stars, unicorns|
and colored beads

Then it hit me
that's her poem to me
a set of random things
that sit beautifully
side by side
around in a circle

and I noticed that
that's the first time
someone wrote
a poem
about
me

Does he know he’s a poet?
The oceanic, the mystic,
The boy who sees his own reflection in his eyelids;
He sings Esther’s song on his way up the mountain.
With granite on his back,
And marble in his pockets,
He carries his alms for the Oracle Sisters;
Does he know the crevices of his brain are indeed rivers?
Replenishing his worn soul with rubies.
The ocean boy,
Disillusioned by his youth,
And with Crawfish swimming between his ankles,
Must he sojourn alone, in this desolate plane?
Or will he think of new landscapes, with a new Sun, new water, and a new friend?

The cowboy’s sitar is a warmer, darker beige, which sits atop a birch trunk.
Handsome are his lovers; their skin the colour of his beloved instrument.
Even in despair he has someone in his bed,

Consoling his loneliest fears in platonic holds.
O, the merry days of young love,
Wringing in the newly weds,
Bringing home the bacon.
Only the cowboy thought to forge his own path.
You see,
Seclusion was a scare for the young buck,

Sitting alone under a prejudiced sky.
In love he set out for his calling;
Thinking of whom—and for who—he could make a fine husband.
Alas, amidst these broken records he calls his utopian visions,
Returns he, to his lover atop his birch trunk.

what i’m longing for
is the opposite
of what i have now
a bustling house
with life, smiles & frowns
cats lurking in corners
and soups on the stove
warmth in the air
and hearts full of hope

the bees are sharing their dreams
with me

and I want to know what
it feels like to rob a bank,
to run naked through the moonlit garden,
compose a sonata,
stare up into trees
then pause to listen to blue birds singing,

the bees are sharing their dreams with me, today

and I want to run with the bulls
in Pamplona

I want to remember

time insane
when untamed dreams
ran wild
in the dim light
of a room without windows

desperado,
purple eyeshadow and lips

dancing through misty memory,
she comes

quiet midnight settling in her eyes
bare foot waif, never kind...

the thief of my dreams

sometimes,
The time it takes
to curate a reality
Where
The eyes of a hostile reflection
Don't contribute to, but consume-
the moment's prison of littleness...
Is it not possible?
To escape eternity's hour's ceaselessness?
Hope,
is too short;

we perpetuate-
it takes shape.
we preform,
then placate.