i gave him my last
five bucks, for tales of war, his
preference for stars

thin lines
tie us freely
to juxtapose a concrete lie

love outleashed
from hidden zones--
piano found

empty theatre--
an audience of one
cries for music

woot for when i feel you understand
woot for private mysteries of only being me and you
woot for games of lashing raw and scintillating *** in discord's after-thaw

woot for being true
for lies so old they utter love in corners never new.

woot for google's Timbuktu and Timbuctoo and Timbuktoo
woot for w00t

for chasing names into an aether sigh of history
forming castles in the mind,
stonewalling issues to the end of time

woot for fruit.

blank season--
cherry blossoms still
wound an aging heart

dreams of bardo--
neither dead nor living
seasons pass












.