Clatter clutter on the pave, feet on the run
furrowed brows faces grave, life is no fun
home to work work to home, time is so mean
to and fro on the track, heads in a spin.

Red for the pedestrian, green for the car
quicker may save the day, sights are a blur
conspires the digit light, ticks ever slow
holds up adds to fright, the cruel red glow.

Just on the other side, a few blocks more
you are late again, ears hear the roar
had they only known, the hurdles on the way
the daily mad struggle, to save the day's pay.

The road is clear now, on a quick glance
here's the time to move, grab the prized chance
clatter clutter on the pave, feet on the run
blood spreads on the tar, redder in the sun.

Gold Mandala Suns,
In fine Ming vase of green jade.
Welcomes day’s good Grace.

Let me lay down in the bed of poetry
you keep underneath
the soft curves of your skin
and let me sleep in
until it is time to dream again

let your smile be the sun
and the moon and the sky
forever painted black and blue
and bruised with the brush strokes  
of love lost and found
and fought for and kept

weave the magic in your pulse
into the madness of my heartbeat
and spill your words of blood and anguish
and sorrow and triumph
into the silence of the conversation
between the color and wonder
of your eyes gazing hypnotically
into the horror and the void
and monsters living
in the dark pools of mine

build bridges between
the broken pieces of me
and the stars you keep
under your skirt
and we will live in our own universe
where everything hurt
has a place to find comfort
and every comfort knows
the way back
from the place where we hurt

where dreams know that nightmares
are part of the stage and the play
and that life even in death
must always go on
and should we forget our lines
we just need to listen
to the song of the leaves
and the words in the wind

we will be the forest
and the bears and the wolfs
and the dragons and the clouds
and the fire and the howls
and the fairy and the tale
and the language we make up
as we write poetry underneath
the beds of our skin

if I had been a Bee I could have produced some honey
witnessing the fact I really have a sweet nature, even though my sting would warn you, to take care, whenever I get too close.
But I was born a poet and write of love and although I sing of lovers my heart lives in the house of tomorrow where no one can come close because all my love will be requited in a future yet to reveal itself and only when I have travelled through the gates of death will anything really make perfect sense, where the Bee will no longer sting and will willingly share its honey.

I dreamt of living
Above the Insomniac Cafe
With mirror cakes of midnight blue
In the shape of the moon
A cup of starless espresso
Among quietly shimmering candles
Of light
That's disquietingly low
And every being asleep
Silent and smothered
Except for me
Fully awake with
An exceedingly loud soul.

We are elaborate animals made of wood
earth, flowing like water into the veins
of the sky.

The sun being a fist of lava, and the night
being an enticing molar—we are
a succession of tides, being swallowed
by successions of day; and how beautifully
we wilt in the presence of joy.

The moon may be nothing
but a luminous
stone

and to eat the poetry of it
is how one chokes
on love

but the romance of morning
is that if by midnight
you are alive, that is joy.