This city is bedwetting
herself every night
and her face is so yellow
....
Ammonia leads you
to the bar or to the temple
no tourist guide to follow.
...................
Drunkard mapped it all
wall by wall  and
willow by willow
..........
This city bed wets
herself from the toe
to the pillow
......
It's not too young or too old,
too big or too small
too harsh or too mellow
...
At first it stings like Habanero
then hypnotizes
like a constant deep cello .

He wrote three lines
killed humanity in the first, the language in the second, and the reader in the third, and  sat waiting for condolence cards and flattering flowers .

ladies and gentlemen
glad to announce that:
I'm no longer cursed with hope and reasonability
I'm cured !
no longer different from you , I worship reality
......
My neighbor was dying
I  kept petting my dog, enjoying my pizza, movie and my stability
normal, very normal ..the usual nature of morality
........
the borough cut my pine tree to make a street.
I didn't rebel,  I gave them an ax.
normal ,very normal
the usual  madness of Municipality
........
a woman gave birth to a fly ..a fly egg hatched into an ostrich
a man sneezed two elephants..  I wasn't surprised
normal, very normal ..the usual  nature of fertility
.........
ladies and gentlemen I'm just like you!
no longer cursed with hope or sick with reasonability
..........
I used to  see spots in my ceiling and say "" how beautiful this colored sky", I assure you  that I'm not cursed with hope and know it's mold
normal, very normal ..the usual  nature of humidity .
.....
I used to see dark magenta bread and say " how colorful our east and west
, I assure you I'm cured from hope and I know the bread is soaking wet , with blood , sweat and anxiety.

waves are horses of invaiders
I was a horse In a life
and a wave in other life
I made so many widows and bathed many virgins
when I was a horse I chewed on my leash
I ran not to pull any wagon but to flee the merciless whip .
now I looke  at wild horses runnning by the sea
I know tomorrow  I will be a bird sleeping for good in a tree  
I will die and wake up a peice of
wood in a ship or a cross raised by invaiders

When you are gone
i hang a sign on the glass of my soul
"i'll be right back"

every December
lovers among history meet within my heart
as lights intersect in a drop of water
to be hanged by the same woman.
like unknown date of death passes once every year
her last look sprouts in my veins
every December.