let me rest
at your foundations.
the bedrock and granite streaking
earth.
let me trace with my fingers your
basis.
to feel safe and free
of your too cold hands.

I am still a marble block
Being sculpted into a beautiful bust
My creator chips away
at these rough edges
To illustrate a new and inventive "crust."
At this time, such is merely a face and half a block.
Artistic Beauty
Such as Individualism takes time
There can be no Race against a clock
Aristotle, Socrates, and Di Vinci took their gift of time
to create
as a gift
Some of them, these artists were not discovered until years after their deaths
and their works remain dusty in a supply closet
Sometimes discovery happens by accident
It is not always planned
Isn't such evident?

Not for fame..But for inventiveness and a view to finally be seen by naked eyes
A name added to those legends who changed the world.

Rays of light under darkened skies.

Society takes too much "pride" in only mingling with "equal levels"
as far as fear of being "weighed" in as lower than they demand
If they unearth a newer rookie or are seen conversing with what "appears"
to be dusty paintings, sculptures, and creations that are considered "Not yet"
When such comes to the rules of the "social books."
The Lady law is blind for a reason
The scales are run by her for a reason
If each one of us would have a chance to make sure that we end our fears of someone else taking our "rightful spot"
By defrauding the art community and success-social life balance
Then, we, ourselves, have committed treason.

kissing the cold lips of a marble statue
didn't feel too good until i remembered that
yours were always cold from the rain

If the Sun
Were the size of a basketball
Sitting in L.A

The next closest
Nuclear furnace
Would be half a world away,
In Santiago, Chile.

Leagues of empty space,
Blackened cosmos.

Like droplets of rain,
Floating in an aetherous cloud.

We stare out of our bubble and wonder
What is there to be found?

If we are destined to empty space,
Falling upon empty planets around empty stars,

We are a singular flame
In a forest of midnight

That cannot be put out.

large panel windows with a view of brick beyond
white (pristine, pure)
untouched fantasies
and
compromised realities


draped in sunlight it tastes bitter like
unaged marble, freshly cut and hung
(on a languid pointe you advance
    — a graceless ballonné)


there’s a peace to be found
in quiescent words dripping in honey   sounding across an empty room
sinking to the soles of your feet
as you dip your toes into discarded symphonies
painting them across my heart.

dense as marble, your body
is something to hold onto

after years of chasing shadows,
thin reedy men whose leavetakings

were their legacies, fashioning
(maybe by accident) crude sharp tools

with which to stab my heart.
look at it today,

made thick by crisscrossing
scar tissue. have you ever seen

anything so beautiful
that was broken but

unbroken? here, feel
the heft of it in your palm.