Little dog running hard
toward the parked cars
looking and sniffing
then rushes to the next one
panting
eyes filled with anxiety
seeking the owner who abandoned it
big round eyes all teary
it must be thinking sadly
"if i get to become a human in the next life
i will do anything to be kind
adopt a cute puppy
and stay with it
until the end of time."

At the time
we would copy all the lyrics
in our beautiful notebooks
delicate string could be wound into patterns
between the fingers
we would play hopscotch til we're red in the face
at the time
the lotus seeds were sweet
flowers were fragrant and fish were small
there were fruits we loved to eat all over the hillsides
we would run barefoot in the moonlight
we would look up stubbornly
to find the big dipper in the sky
at the time
clouds were white
scarecrow was cute
many mimosas on the road to school
dandelions would fly all over the world too
the best time
lost in the strong wind
I'm on the other side
the time is gone like
a torn kite.

I apologize
For making half-rhymes
It’s a habit I can’t break no matter how I tries

Hope you pardon me
When you hear me sing
Like a scratchy vinyl record or a gagging geek

I’m so sorry for
How I play guitar
Got no rhythm when I strum and fingers fumble chords

All apologies
For my deficiencies
Please excuse me while I flush my latest masterpiece

From times of which I have no idea
whether I unconsciously know about it
this block has been broken in Carrara

What kind of blood is running
through its veins? What is it calling for
in my head? A piece of stone

remaining itself, impervious
to everything I try
to attribute to it

It just remains what it is
while it forms form thoughts in me
which I cut free from myself with chisels

Look! Art. Mine. Do you see
me? Only I do it like that
Look, I exist!

The stone is still a stone
but I am only here now
in the contact, after the contact

The stone created
my creative thought
the stone created me

for a while, for those who know
a little, in time at most my name
but the stone keeps creating

boredom was the only monster underneath the bed at home
it creeps up so fast if you're not careful
it'll set so thick in the air
a knife can cut through it but it will not get rid of it

the **** was something she knew all along

it's the fabric in the boxes that give it an upper cut
the paint on a percaline figure that blinds its site
the recipes in a box that cut away at it slowly
the tomatoes to pick, to eventually throw at it
the colored pencils; the shank of creativity

the boredom will crawl away and bother another family
it preys on other houses
of the mom's that don't know how to get rid of it
and only flinch when they look the assassin in the eyes

the stars have aligned within my bedroom ceiling
as every potential life of mine passes before dinner time
the luck I have to be so passionate of the paint on my canvas
and the way I flip my eggs in the morning
how to understand Fibonacci's sequence in the way of the art
but also in the way of where I place my keys

do you know what it is to feel so deeply?
about the light that strikes my porcelain heart so perfectly
but also the way my plant leaves shine in the window's glow

do you know what it feels like to have it all?
every single artisans gave me it all in one touch
I'm a wicked traveler of space and time
I would live a million lives if I could
it may be a blessing, but it may be a curse
because choosing one would be the saddest of it all

Selmhem Naise


Most often we write

  for ourselves

               and to our selves.

And most often  we
end up reading our own work
             much more

             than anyone else does.

Most often
our poetry is
our own  spirit's

             pressing itself back towards us--


        The  one  we want
  and need
  relationship with
                      most deeply;

                                  most often

                is our very own selves.

With our attitudes
towards IQ
and academic aptitudes
our human metrics
makes us
maladjusted
and unjust.

Materialism
is a modern
mass pathology,
perpetuated
by outdated
corporate
mythologies.

So, what gives rise
to precise
intense inner
creative drives
that elevate
and surprise
humans before
great creations
are fully realized?

The core of
creativity
is not centralized,
but synthesized
from your insights.
It is up to
you to decide,
bring out your
unique light
and brighten
our lives.