To read is to breathe
To write is to drink
To listen is to eat and
To wonder is to believe

I dip my index finger into a cold butterscotch pudding,
closing my eyes as i bring it to my warm lips and a burst of surprising flavors enter onto my taste buds.
Sweet, Caramel oh so creamy....this is why i love my pudding.

Unread my buried poems
in worldly words of mouth
Unread the drops of water
from spilled ink on the ground

The breath of mouth
You unread when covered
with the dying roses
unread the doubts
unread the doubts
unread the doubts
of the mouth

Unread the walls of caves
from tongues of creepy lions
Unread the burning love
when falling on the clouds
In dusty foam unread
Unread the words of mouth

The builders let me visit here
free to roam the halls.
They’ve built some walls
and stairs
to upper floors with streaming light
and to a darkened basement.

I’m honored to be allowed here
to write words on the wood
to see pages posted that could
render me speechless if I let them.
But instead, these writings of pain
these revelations of shame
are like knives that pierce my heart
and I pour it out on the floor
and ceiling and dark corners
through the windows
into the night
into the light.

The builders nail their dreams
and desperation and beams
of hope, desire and grief
and lattice of love and belief
trying to do their part to complete
the work of this edifice rising
each day each hour
we builders immigrants
looking for home.

As i sleep
I am on the cloud
Above the desert
As i read til midnight
The moon lights up my
Book
And not sprays
Mist to cool me off