Terracotta heart baked to finesse
Terracotta heart made of all things fresh,
Terracotta heart a juvenile delinquent,
Terracotta heart born a ****** quaint,

Braised in warmth, seared in passion,
Sautéed in a cruel satiric humour,
Garnished red, to a near perfection,
Served scorching hot or a blue surrender,

Terracotta heart an agile quill,
Terracotta heart as strong as the will,
Achille's heel ageing to extinction,
Alas! Never mend this fatal habitation,

How often a day by vows endowed,
How loftily by lust ensnared,
Barmy Merchants’ failed affair,
Quit here or quietly endure,

Terracotta heart chasing fleeting dews,
Terracotta heart braving the brutal rues,
Terracotta heart, a broken souvenir,
Dare gently cater or beware,

Terracotta heart a nomad of time,
Terracotta heart an unholy shrine,
Terracotta heart baked to imperfection,
Terracotta heart never braised in affection,

Terracotta heart scattered never dead..
Terracotta heart never learned to love…

Down from Arizona desert cold, absence of ice and snow
three white painted terracotta pots
by the Villa apartment on the tabled walkway—
Christina’s place.

Stacked, each alternately inverted one to the next
stabilize a snowperson body.
Can you picture it?

Black painted buttons all the way up?
Lips of dots, an orange twist of nose,
deep eyes void black.

Burgundy scarf tied around the neck,
positioned just so, it could be fit
to a Christmas Chihuahua.

By its playful form and surprising attitude,
may it well succeed at pleasing every passerby
and draw out, on each scroogey face, a smile.

It’s been doing just that for me, as I park
opposite each night, my headlights there shining.

Still, I have not and shall not peak inside
the alluring, open terracotta skull,
since I have imagined not wishes,
nor disappointments, nor elves and cookies,
but practical ash, randomly spiked with spent cigarettes.

Last night, as I walked out, with my night’s anticipations,
my grab-bag of happy tangles, Christina’s hanging silver chimes
issued soft whispering over terracotta, and I caught
a remembrance of Amazing Grace how sweet the sound.

Then Mojo my psychic dog turned me sharply,
and he took me away–we two, going toward home
a starry desert.

We awake to morning sounds
Of pavements washing down
Everyone's a trader
In this terracotta town

Wander through the winding streets
Drink in sights and sounds
A trader or an artist
In this terracotta town

Time to find a slice of shade
Siesta hour has come around
All is quiet, all is still
In this little tourist town

The waiters they are waiting
No-one wears a frown
Everybody holds a stake
In this their terracotta town

The fishermen are coming in
The sun is going down
We hold onto a painted pebble
To remind us of the peace we found

Dont you feel like
Life is easier emotionless
We try to seize the moment
But in the end its always "goodbye"
And forced to face reality
Because we're all going to die

My fake smile is all you see
Because we all know the
Tears are real, the smile's not me

Do we truely know whats inside of us
That deep down we are nothing but
our broken hearts and lost parts
Fallen glass and broken shards

We try so hard to realize our strengths
So we can mask our greatest weaknesses
But in our heart and souls
We know what we are...


-Terracotta soldiers;
A hollow shell
Of handcrafted beauty
Hidden from a world
Ignorant enough
to forsake our existance-

In these clay-covered hands
I hold the last droplets of water
We laugh off the miseries
Drinking steaming tea
Stepping into pools of mud
Purposefully
Laughter on a leash
Follows us wholeheartedly
We hold onto the clouds
So that we don’t fall asleep
And miss these terracotta skies
That match our skin
Where within transcribed
Are hopes and dreams
A flower you are
So preciously delicate
And I’m here praying
That whatever I have left
Is enough to
Sustain
Your growth
Out of this midnight grief

The terracotta shines in the westerly sun
when the man and the woman
fly on the temple courtyard
on the wings of time.

She touches the sculptured kiss
He stares at the ample breast
She blushes at the frozen mount
He awes at the curve and crest
She feels a longing to be his
He wishes seizing her for a kiss.

Shadows grow long on the burnt clays,

time to go separate ways.

Assembled forces
Around the heaven of the Moon
The heaven of Gabriel the Holy
Influences the beings
Fragile to death
Who can pull out the geese bird?
From the clay ***
Without breaking it
Not the life’s ignorant disciple
Nor the Sisyphean planetary orphan
Neither the life’s exhausted ascetic
A key-maker a treasury holder
Yet I do want to embrace the whole
Visible and invisible entities
You may celebrate your prodigy
And mock my naivety
And immeasurable love
I’ll do this until I dry
As a dew
Until I become a piece
Missing from terracotta
Kept for ages in the sand of Baghdad
Where Shamash made crisps from
The skin of the humans
So they may think they’re
Reptiles
Red eye killers

The temple rises
high above the humid earth.

The sun looking through the playful clouds
colors the terracotta in the golden hue
of God's emotions
long forgotten by the travellers
down on his earthly abode.

Nobody was born today
But you picked up a cake anyway
for five dollars fifty plus tax

Now you're watching
Criminal Minds on a couch made for three
and eating it with your hands

It vaguely occurs to you that
you should be sharing it with someone
or at least put on some **** candles

You're not even hungry
you don't even need to fill a void
you did good today

You hardly even miss her anymore.
You haven't thought about it in weeks.
If you just slept you'd be fine in the morning.

You consider it all
examining the red velvet
stuck under your thumbnail

Maybe you're looking for
a file or a prison shank
sunk beneath the frosting

Or maybe you just need
to make this a Night
The Night of the Cake

It'll blend in
with the others
in a matter of time

But for a few weeks
you'll look back
and remember

you are a member
of those romanticized ranks
those plastic or terracotta statues

Tomorrow you will feed the dog.
And after work you will pick up groceries.
And after groceries you will pay your bills.

But tonight is the Night of Cake.
Tonight
you become a stereotype

An unforgiving consumer
with chocolate-stained hands.

there is a darkness
that the silver song
of soft illusion lights
in symbolic equivalents
of images real
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
the breakage
at the jagged edges of the world
and lays hostage to impersonation
that resembles fragments
of smashed oval shaped mirrors
reflecting pieces of broken
brown terracotta soldiers
and causes the eyes to hurt
with a watched inner holocaust
of disturbing coloured detonations,
implosively autonomous
given to a deceived departure
a departure from reality
given by the advocacy
of ideological rationalism  
that sees three kings
with blood on their crowns
in amplified convulsions
call mustre for
disturbance, disorder, destruction
and death
as blood stains the Balkan streets
and all emotional impulse
is volatilized
and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy
stalks the land
where sustaining minds
are subject to a brutal insensitivity
that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
a vocabulary of incoherence
like the rancid stains of *****
that inhabit the jagged edges of the world