walking through the forest
a chill in the breeze
inhaling the clear air
breathing with such ease

leaves turning gold, amber
autumn settling in
season of moonlit mist
set under my skin

eventually it ends
crystal flakes drifting lightly
carried by a winter gust
snow reflecting brightly

winter’s grip holds so strong
will it ever cease?
i wish for days of autumn
and winter’s release

-l.s.

I’d give you my love,
but my love just wouldn’t do, dear.
If only you could use my love.

Then I’d give you a hug
and a kiss so soft that you wouldn’t fear
what you’re dreaming of, my love.

Oh, why then, love,
why do you cry then, love?
Why don’t you try
some of what I’ve
been thinking of?

Darling, I’ve seen what’s above
and it’s you, but you can’t see the truth.
Let me lift you up, my love.

it happened at night
December 20th 1969, my first ****
two kids in their car
you'll have to wait till

April 30th, 1967
i wrote my letter
bates had to die
nothing will get better

now take it back to 1969
last day of July
San Francisco Chronicles first letter
I bet everyone wanted to cry

it's now the 70's
still haven't been caught
i did talk to two police officers
maybe they didn't think of the distraught

i like the attention
and all the fame
to bad you don't know me
i wonder who you'll blame

I've killed a lot of people
I'd say 37 about
you still don't know me
are you losing all doubt

today will be my last letter
1974 in the middle of April
i wonder who will play me in my movie
whoever it is will be shameful

my case is unsolvable
no one cam believe it
they can't find me
i could always go back if i could commit to it

i hope you enjoyed my story
keep my case on track
everybody keeps on wondering
i am and will be the Zodiac

I met Ms. Brooks just today
Her voice sounded so bright
Filled with pain, and hope, and life
showing darkness, not just the light

She sat me down and showed me her tools
They had all kinds of names.
Like "Volta" and "Cacophony"
Not a single one sounded the same

Then she showed me "kitchenette"
Hammered, filed, and whittled to be
it showed a world that stifled any thought
of Hope, or Want-- It startled me

I shook her hand and took her work
Filing it in my brain
Trying to remember all those words
So that the power remains

Nunca vou pronunciar essas três palavras
Isso não significa que não existam
Mas quando as tento dizer em voz alta
Nada sai dos meus lábios além do ar.

Nunca vou dizer estas três palavras
Decidi fazer disso uma regra
Como Maria Madalena
Não sou uma boba amante.

Nunca vou pronunciar essas três palavras
Mas isso não significa que não seja verdade.
Não vou ficar calada, nunca tenha medo, mas por enquanto,
você não sabe " nada de nada".

7am - Sun sits up in bed
Her fiery tresses stretch beyond my vision
And she yawns across the globe
Giving all else a lead to follow in her glowing shadow
The most delicate, wavy lock
Sways and dances like a pianist
She strikes the keys of my heart strings until my fingertips
Creep to the warm surface of the window
Where I can feel her so near to me -
But I'm restricted
Prevented from this lust
Oh it's not new to me
My skin prickles in sweat as my desire to touch overcomes me

But he's right there.
Walking the length of my thigh
Where his fingers curl inward beneath the bend of my knee
His gentle squeeze unlocks the feeling
Of what I imagine touching Sun would be
An exchange of heat between two bodies
When they meet
A mastery of intimacy swimming in my veins
Coursing through me and suddenly
I'm engulfed with his scent -
A simmering brew of chestnut and vanilla
With a twinge of sour
The taste of fresh bitterness and ground beans
His caffeine is the river I float in for about a 3 hour drive
As Sun gazes from behind this window that we share -
She rises silently and strides away in jealousy
While the stinging heat of her lust
Beats away at the window
Desperately trying to touch me.

a musician
a symphony
he can feel it                 finger by finger.
when he plays it he is singing it inside his mind.
          he said
"There's a pretty good chance I'll never get anywhere."
he puzzles me. he seems to have forgotten already
that he ever was such a person that may have significance.
no concept of him as he was; valuable.
          Well,
just for fun I wrote about the details of him
quiet and humble and letting the music speak for him
though he thought any voice of his small
whether from his mouth or his instrument
but I could hear him just fine

She sang a song of seven seas
She'd once travelled by,
A song of woe, a song of bliss,
She sang to the sky.
She sang a song of seven seas
As she died on the shore,
A song as sweet as a salty kiss
To be heard nevermore.

I once scrungled a tungus, dubbed Binglo Bungus,
Whose cungles were trungly, and cuds cumpily cunk.
But his drungles did fungle, so sadly he bungled,
And without hesitation, he glunked.

Four fingles he fangled, when, biggaly bangled,
Approached not a crowd, but an army of glimps.
And they clinkled his binkle, as he chinkily changled,
But The Bungus stopped not for the bimps.

He dringled those hob-glimps! Their ****** was drompled!
Their pebuses, feeble, buckled under the frung.
And he chungled their drungles, with fury he plungled.
To this day, not a glimp stands to cung.

But his fangling, untrungled, was far from the fringus,
And he fangled on forward another five flinks.
On the fifth flink, he bebussed, as his fangle was pepis,
So he humpled the drumpling ****.

Sir Bungus fangled homeward, his blumpus was tungled.
His drungles rejonked, for the fungling was done.
They erected a frangus to plingus The Bungus,
And the drumpling **** that he'd won.