Galaxy in hand,
          I zoom in on Mount Fuji
     With Nintendo thumbs.

Square white canvases
          painted brown--brown aroma--
                    yellow pool fish--flush!

My friend asks
me where I get
the fodder for
writing my poems.
I tell him, life.
He says that's too
simple.
He isn't satisfied.
I tell him that
sometimes, I sit at
my desk and open
the window above the
litterbox, and look
outside at the
orange daylilies and
wait.

He says he writes
from a small place above
his left ear.
It tickles at times, but
often it's painful.
I nod and make a
note to call my
doctor about the
headaches I've been having.

He reads his posey at
the coffee shops while
drinking espresso and
chatting with the other
young poets in sweaters.
I tell him that I used
to live under a bridge,
I read my poems to the
savage river and the
Mallard ducks, and the
drunk friends that
wandered in for a drink of
***** or a beer.
He says the little place above
his left ear is beginning to
hurt.

I walk him to the door and
tell him goodbye.
He asks if I will come
to the coffee shop to
hear him read his poetry.
"Sure", I say, smiling blankly.
After closing the door,
I sit and smile at the view from
my window.
I can smell the freshly cut
grass, and hear the
grinding whine of the
lawnmower.
A woman across  
the street is lying in
the sun.
She's wearing a turquoise
bikini and big sunglasses.
Just then, a slight hint
of coconut wafts into my room.
I get hard and pick up the pen.

O Lord, I am thy workmanship;
     And shall the *** of clay
     Unto the potter say,
Dash me to dust, for I've a chip?
                              Nay.

Perhaps the potter uses scraps
     For purposes the ***
     Would likely like a lot
If he but knew.  Perhaps.  Perhaps
                              Not.

Hobbled by the
sun, and laid
prostrate by
days of
degenerate
behavior.
Days of
nothingness,
and worse.
Only writing
could save me.

Poor and lonely.
No warm woman to
hold.
No *****.
No home.
But, I had my
writing.
It let the light in,
and buffered me from
the crowds of
scarecrows with sewn
on smiles.

Writing keeps me
immortal and kills
the pain.
It soothes the
mice lost in
the maze, and
brings the stray cat
home to a house where
he's safe.
Writing is the
pillow that keeps
my head up, and
my heart engaged.

I've been working on this drawing
I guess it's more of a rough draft
But that's what this character should look like
I think
It's an early look, of course
You know, concept art
But look
This is a character I'm getting to know
And I think this is them
Maybe this could be them
What do you think?
You like it?
No, I know it's not finished
But what do you think?
Yeah, I know
I just thought it was cool
And I thought, you know
Maybe you'd like it
It's cool
Like I said
It's not finished
You'll love it when I'm really done
No, you'll love it for sure

Wasn't, not was...
The tale of entertained innocence
Speak of the devil, is all of a heed, a buzz?
Long times with a pretty eye, that took on the proverbial since...

Honey, and a summary land...
Sent to a rhyming breeze? obscure was a noble they
Venting irony for a risen dance? welcoming mercy at hand
Baring the shall's comment to a calling? secrets with prettier eyes, may...

Talking with the burden; so adroit, of a banal instinct...?
Has focused another's eye on the problems of home...
Heavenly couth or the curse of happenstance
Has welcomed us, not the spoil of demand, but a wish becoming some...

Wealth, versus wisdom
In the pity, we fight like aristocratic futures...
Found like a stricken conversation let, to complete and win
Salvation of a peace; is ours for question we made, to purity...

But, where, is the fun in that...
Save your hug first, for a rolling presence of sharing a loyalty
Simple as pie, a black bird has spilled the beans, a royal isn't...
That is the cough of dependency, for a soul with or without, simplicity?

Good morning, angel
How was the nights resolve, sleepy philosophy till the end?
You awoke when a silence was early, the hour given to little...
Loves and daring decency, of a waiting hope, to make your liberty a host to render...?

The patience you show, and the embarrassment of should?
A showing live of simpler sorts, with the count of shadows...
Persistent little cease and desist, approval of a nary come would
Without a friend for hap, from here to eternity with a spoken said:

Wishes that play the part
Wishes that compare final luck, to a promise that seems to keep
Wishes that rued the irony of poise, into two parts of art
Wishes that sake a divine course for the breath of a season's leap

Of succinct chances and flowers that gave the wonder of solitude...
Somewhere, the poignancy of a shared idea, if not the dragon that made you...
Is a weary hindsight, that has sat on the laurels of worth, like a shoulder
Your care for these, meant and lent with virtue, has juice to please?

The painting shows the

nation that is not yet there --


It's a creation.

As I wake to a new day, a new me arises
Different yet the same, a fresh reset
Retaining those values, fundamental
In defining one's true character, absent
The previous outline of my whole.

Confusion takes hold, for now I am half
Like folded tracing paper, overlapping
Complex lines in gesture, ever moving
In an attempt to remember, who I was
Before peaceful sleep took me under.

Stubborn I stand tall, looking around
To my surroundings, searching for meaning
Amongst a newly minted world, glimpsing
A single picture, mirroring my sketch
Standing next to the only reason I wake.

...

Only your beauty can complete my art.

...

You, my heart.