I cannot be doing with this peering into the darkness
This wondering and dreaming is a little tiring, my darling -
As tired as the dusty cornflowers, once upon a time, beguiling.
Your heart - perched and sat - is being wasted, love pouring
Upon something that will be, nevermore.

I was growing a flower,
I gave it all a flower may need,
but I never saw its bloom
because all along it was a ****.

She
               (my mother
is not of softness but is of steel reinforced concrete.
she will give what she feels is deserved.
nevermore {beg if you like}
neverless
regardless of the cost to herself.
                                                        ­  . . but deep, deep
as fair as rock is she.
her greetings are tolerations. her goodbyes, predictions
- of my forseen failures.
                                                       ­    . . still     i seem to remember . .
a
* glimmer *
of a laugh, a  
~whisper~  
of a touch                  so
                                      ­         very    
                                                        ­       long
                                                     ­                            ago . .  /  

perhaps one day as she lies resting I will take my mothers hand
and kiss her upon her marble forehead
and speak "I love you mom"
and a single tear will drop from my face
onto her face
. . . and the coldness within her will bre-
                                                            ­      -ak

and my mother will break.

You play with the great globe of union,
you that see everyone so clearly
and cannot be seen. Even universal


intelligence gets blurry when it thinks
you may leave. You came here alone,
but you create hundreds of new worlds.



Spring is a peacock flirting with
revelation. The rose gardens flame.
Ocean enters the boat. I throw
it all away, except this love for Shams.

I am a dot on Seurat’s canvas.

You told me that I wouldn’t be respected if I used Times New Roman, well maybe I don’t write to be respected. Maybe I write in Times New Roman because I like to read in it.

I could write in Wingdings. Would that make you happy? Would that make me stand out?

I don’t write with words I don’t understand and I don’t embellish nature to sounds pretty. Times New Roman isn’t trying to impress anybody and neither am I.

I am writing about what is real and I am writing about how I feel and I don’t need your opinion and I don’t want to hear your spiel.

Did that make me stand out?

I been drawing my fingers
with a couple of colors
                                      my blue nails
                                      reflect of my mind
charming
flying
singing with the wind night melodies
changing
moving leaves
dancers
being alone
being human
palpitations
                                               an a gasp
feelings are forgotten
into the sea
beneath the sky.

Seconds seem like ages,
But hours are so short.

Time passes slowly
But it all ends so fast

Hearts beat,
Leaves fall.

Wind blows
Shivers run.

Heart stops
Tears fall

Memories left
A ghost to recall.

When I was 9,
I stopped fearing the monster under my bed.
So he shrank down in size.

He climbed up my bed
and crawled in an ear
now he lives within me
renamed ‘things I fear’.

If hell is engulfed in fire
as bright as the sun,
And heaven is lit
by a divine light,
Then I shall die with sunglasses.

Drawing things I cannot see,
Listening,
Keenly,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
fog,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
melting,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
***-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
far,
far,
far,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,

So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
Solitude.