"patched" poems
Draining life to fill it with
watered-down pain, can he feel now? If my teeth make
an appearance, you'll be given your fix of my 'happiness,'
injected through your cranium. I wish I could navigate my
naive wishes, as I'm sinking in my pillows, and the light on
the ceiling is winking at me as I'm patched up, written in 'unhappy'
My uncanny doubts are fancying a feathery gift of sleep,
unlike this fascination with
falling feet to my death of dreams-
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
I am a master seamstress
I sew on a grin every day
You can never see my seams
Careful little stitchings
All across the surface
At the end of the day
I cut every little string
I let my sewn smile fall weak
I could smile without it
But it wouldn't be true
Because my cute little smile
Is merely a façade
The real me hides behind seams
She sews to be a survivor
The little seamstress I become
I am a master seamstress
I sew thoughts onto papers
The ink could never bleed through
My strong tight stitchings
Gliding across the blank paper
At the edge of the sheet
I find myself stopping
My stitches want to unravel
I have to let them out
Because they look so caged
So I exterminate my thoughts
They never come back to visit
I set them free for a reason
And it was for them to survive
This little seamstress has a heart
I am a master seamstress
I turn colors into thoughts
The thoughts I turn to material
The material I turn to beauty
The beauty I turn to stitches
The stitches heal broken hearts
My work is so well known
But then they go and leave
I do my part and they are pleased
I stitch their hearts up
They cut some stitchings
Right off my patched heart
The little strings I use
On my seamless tiny grin fray
The seamstress I was works no wonders
I am a master seamstress
I sew the strings onto the puppets
They act a lot like I do
So I admire their tough hearts
They are controlled by another
Little hands lift them up
And make them walk through life
They have their grins plastered on
Just like my seamless little smile
They prance and fly among us
But we never seem to notice them
It's like they are invisible
Falling upon deaf eyes
But I keep them alive
Because a seamstress always saves
I am a master seamstress
I sew what some call impossible
I prove them wrong with one stitch
Still they see right through me
I sewed myself invisibly
Don't let them see the real me
Don't let them know the seamstress
I've sewed their eyes to know
Not to look upon me
As I fix as I repair
They think of me as a fairy
Patching up their cuts
I'm just a small little figure
They never really see
That's just the way a seamstress likes
I am a master seamstress
I sew my wings of thread
Wear them proudly like a trophy
Every stitch is always perfect
They fly up off the wings
They soar when I fly up high
Drooping when I try to walk
My wings are seamless grins
They pretend to be when I'm not
Just like the little grin of everyday
Fly away all you little seams
All the little frayed strings
Gather up in all my stitchings
They look upon the air with care
But the seamstress can't fly away anymore
I am a master seamstress
Sewing up what cannot be fixed by man
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
Watching night step-sitters staring at each passerby
abiding time as if counting sheep stepping with the city's cadence
Hearing sirens alarming in their BEWARE BLARING;
persistent fearfulness for evil and citizens securities
Staring-walking-bodies searching a barren land prostrating
before the great needle
Patched streets and decaying sidewalks by flooding night lights lay surreal
DECAYING fingers of poverty playing its fingers into every crack, crevice; into every pore, into every cell member
into one's whole being
Sounding the hip-hop generation street corners of hustlers
jiving away the night
The hustled and hustlers' overwhelming struggling for power; being surrounded by red brick and stone; being incased in poverty
Pounding city hysteria;
at times laying silent in sleepless depth
by the waning gradualness;
anytime readying itself to ERUPT
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
this makeshift democracy
yearning endearing
breeding festering aristocracy
petrified on the sidelines
black hispanic asian european
the manifesting minority
which built this republic
political policy withered to marrow
echoes of Washington
fade in graves marble halls
politicians etches unsheathed
to feast in bribery sorts
the gleam of monetary value
blinded patched pockets
burning the fabric
to be later devoured
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
~~
Then, if ever, is the red color grows fade
The petals of red roses drop
If the birds don't sing any songs
And even a butterfly doesn't
Play on a purple flower
If the mistake happens in the rain
You 'll not cry
You can't be afraid of thunder
They will cleanse you
And when I am gone
Forgive me, but the melody in the air
You will come, playing in the garden,
Dance with the lost grasshoppers
Any yellow day when red flamboyant will be bloomed
Will have to take off your colorful sunglasses
At the very noon will be floated on the Cuckoo's love song
Again and Again it will prove your arrival,
O' Spring
You'll be the very white sky after rain
Will bloom red hibiscus
On that gilded day
Red flamboyant 'll be loved with yellow flamboyant
Patched up with melody and words
Will be made new Songs,
New Poetry,
With the yellow flowers tune
Then again,
You 'll not sing a song of despair,
Not even a song of hiatus,
Will sing the Songs of Joy,
Stir in the way of dreams,
Mating
Back to again and again
I 'll come back to you
Both 'll make a love
For the creation of a new life
~~
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
My love is greater than your mistakes
Greater than anyone else
Greater than what you could give to me...
The immense amount of my love
bigger than you might have thought
deeper than you might have imagined
My love is the greatest gift I could give
from a sacred heart of mine
but you choose to abandon
the greatest love of all
no words can define
Thoughts of you
still linger in my mind
time is passing by
as I keep getting patched
as I keep getting hurt
as my love shattered into pieces
how could I move on?
My love is my shadow
as I walk away my love will follow
and as long as I don't betray
my love will not go astray
My love is more than valuable
more than the hatred I have for you
though it tend to crumble
like a diamond in the rough
gold in the mud
still shining and precious
My love has been locked up
way too long inside of me
leaving me alone and you hold the key
getting stuck on my love
you make me clueless
to either fight or to give up
you're always in my heart
I wish my love has wings
it flies away in the clouds
free and easy in every motion
finding the right place in someone's heart
full of devotion
But I still believe that someday, somehow
my love will set me free
free from you and the glimpse of your shadow
slowly fade away
eventually....
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC
She had been at sea for three decades
her first voyage at age eighteen
a week after her marriage
in the year of our Lord 1883
She married a sailing man
captain of his own ship
handsome, bearded and tall
a fine commander of his men
as they searched the sea for whales
She loved life at sea
and could imagine no other
the motion of the ship
the sounds of the rigging and the sails
the quiet companionship
with her husband every evening
She was beloved by her husband’s men
whom she mothered well
having had no sons of her own
but nurtured and healed
patched and sewed
bloodied and broken hearts and men
Often she came out on deck
for she knew when they would find them
and though she was in the stern
and the lookout was high in the crow's nest
she saw many whales they missed
She thrilled each time she saw them
awed by their sheer size
marveling at their strength
humbled by their beauty
careful to hide her feelings
Sometimes she could feel
when a whale would blow
and she would call to the first mate
so the men looked at her
as the whale passed unseen
Most times she silently prayed
willing the lookout to search
the wrong spot of ocean
and felt again the pang
of disloyalty to her husband
for he commanded a whaling ship
But then the lookout's call came
"Thar she blows!"
and the men sprang to action
taking after the whale in longboats
while she escaped below
She had seen before the killing
she would not watch again
too many whales succumbed
to exploding harpoons
and a death horrifyingly cruel
And she wondered
what would happen
if only whales could scream . . .
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 6:49 AM UTC
I feel this big void in my chest
The constant urge for tears to go crashing down my face
Why must you do this
You are the reason for many things
You ghost still lingers in my heart
I can feel you in my soul
You''ve made me small
You cut me at the knees
I don't stand so tall anymore
The constant over thinking
How can this be life
I can't tell no one
So you can't tell anyone
How my heart is falling apart
It's been patched up with tape and glue
But it's not holding anymore
You cut me at the knees
Can't you see I'm slowly slipping away
I'm not the same person
I don't think they notice.. my friends
My urge to break you the way you broke me grows exceedingly
You cut me so deep
You cut me at the knees
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
You are the velvet to my lace, the freckles on your face, the rocket to outer space when i’m forgetting why my feet need to hit the ground.
You are three seconds away from a sunrise when I desperately need the light, you are a cup of tea and wisdom, and you are a giggle at just the right moment while the blood exchanges ideas between my wide-eyed fanatic manic panic mind and my static acrobatic heart.
You are love and a smile when everything around has fallen dark. We fall down the seasons, each leaf turned to green as the time is subjective as valued.
we fall down the winter of broken glass and torn kneecaps and into the summer of understanding and patched hearts.
We fall down the stairs of the boy who was the blank slate and into the arms of the boy who painted his stone happy.
You are the living room of my soul, where all the pictures make us smile just to look at them and the quilt on the couch is beautiful enough to make up for the small tear in the corner. Where the cups of tea sipped are innumerable as the curls on your head and the watercolor windows open past our souls and into our worlds.
Someday we’ll be able to keep track of our socks and get enough sleep but right now I’m still figuring it out. I’m still trying to connect the sky to the tree to the earth to the tesseracted interaction theatrical statement of who I am and what I will be. We will become.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
We can hold hands
And not get serious
We can make plans
And not get delirious
We can kiss each others faces
And shimmy out of our laces
While my heart races
When you touch those places
And it's all just fun
So we call each other ***
There's no strings attached
Just my heart to be patched
And it's you I adore
Because we both want more
But we'll just cuddle on the floor
No energy anymore
I just want to play
I like the cute things you say
There's nothing to stress
I can't possibly make a mess
For that's what I fear
Hurting you my dear
Getting serious scares me so
******* up makes you my foe
I have to let you know
That I really don't want you to go
Because a friend is what I need
I don't mean to mislead
I thought we agreed
We'd aim to succeed
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
"Move" they say
and put martingale on with a neigh
Thai pony in Chiang Mai
A green patch of grass
was what your heart desires
would yourself like a chew of truss?
In the forest with no name
on hard concrete without an aim
swimming with the tuk-tuk wave
"Where am I?"
you ask with side-patched eye
"My knees are soft like a microwaved pie"
But all you ever get
is a whip on the back
from the oddity with some leather strap
"Why are you so hesitant
while all the other stallions are competent
don't you know the creatures in the carriage are very important?"
"How important are the vultures in the world I don't know
but I know that I won't say no
if you borrow a thread of my hair for a violin bow
and play their funeral march with it to and fro"
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
I entrust my patched heart to you,
from what you've shown I know it's fine.
I only take what's deemed as true,
your eyes gleam when you look in mine.
I asked myself if it could be,
to see another in the stars.
Tainted love cast me out to sea,
but you began to heal those scars.
Your past pain mirrors mine so well,
you trust me even more than he.
And I won't be afraid to tell
I'm better then he'll ever be.
Someday soon starts a new way on
paved with our smiles and laughter.
Hesitation is all but gone,
Our happily ever after.
(Psyche).
Jun 8, 2011
Jun 8, 2011 at 11:24 AM UTC
When news broke out that the glorious White Building
was to become dust to make way for a high rise
that would displace both bones and ghosts,
we were standing in a parking lot, my friends’ fists
clutched tight around their motorcycle handles,
their rapid Khmer lilting with each syllable
as they quickly planned a memorial service
for another shard of history that once did not have
blood dripping from where it had been broken.
My nickname was Country Girl, clueless and silly,
full of questions, songs and dances, a patched-up mess
with the face of a Vietnamese, the laugh of a Filipino,
and the pride of a maybe, sometimes, almost Khmer.
We left just as the city was starting to wake again.
In journalism school, they never taught us
how to grieve for ourselves, so we tried
in the best way we knew how -- a funeral procession
of worn rubber shoes and checkered polos,
in our backpacks the cameras that would write our eulogies for us.
I was the stranger whose connection to the deceased no one
understood, but still let in,
taught me a prayer,
offered some porridge.
That afternoon, I whispered a prayer.
White Building, who stares death in the face,
once a mother to the hands that had colored
their age gold, please welcome me.
Do not let your skeleton
collapse beneath the weight of this stranger.
Please, welcome me.
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 2:10 AM UTC
honoring the glass artistry of Dale Chihuly
A rainbow of serrated globes,
Friends to the water lilies,
Floats in a sculptured pool.
A surreal yellow glass Medusa
Woven through a white crescent trellis
Gleams in the midday sun.
Choirs of chrysanthemums
Sing with multicolored flora
Blown from molten soda, lime and sand.
Sheltered in a geodesic tropics
Orange herons stand on legs of glass
Amid living palms, bamboo and wild orchids.
Towering blue spires
Lift skyward out of the soil
While butterflies dance
In the misty veil of a waterfall.
Nature and the shimmering world within
Happily converge in the florid vision
Of an effervescent man with a patched eye -
A man called Chihuly.
October, 2006
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
the red
golden yellow
and amber leaves land soft
weaving a thick warm patched quilt for
mother
earth in anticipation of
the autumn chill
and the onset of
**** frost
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
No quibbling siblings musing in the shallows, patriotism must be dealt with at it's route markers. They are all twisted. It is the duty of right thinkers to untwist
and shout,
All ye, All ye or Oy ye, Oy ye Outs (never Ox) in free. The ransom has been paid, the game of hide and watch is played. Touch, eh?
Nature's what? Original state? Perfected state? Fractured state patched with circuit breaking dams and weirs.
Nature's God, the mind behind Nature.
whose were the buffalo the servants of christmas replaced with sacred cows offered and eaten in Outback Steak Houses at Indian Casino Super TAs from sea to shining sea? Whose God commanded that? Whose God permuted that?
Who has sown bullheads in the squash? Shall we pull them up?
Let the children pull them up. Teach them to see the tiny round leave, which is to be squash or watermelon, sosweet, or water-stealing, sticker-making **** Goatheads in little running feet all summer long, ouch. ouch. ouch.
Knowledge is power. Power is not lost. Is that enough to know and grow to know more and to spare? Is enough abundance enough to spare and share? Yes. On a broken planet, men of both model may make enough of anything they desire, or sire in their best happy ever after scheme or schema. That part never broke. The tongue-mind interface, that fried. Listen. Wisdom never shouts, you know.
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
Stencils and pencils
Sharpener mishaps
Doodles, scribbles
Scrambling shades
Blending sketches
Running axis points
Spherical shadows
Tinting hints and hues
Pencilled portraits
Cruel crooked eyes
The bendy nose
Philosophical muse
Artistically inspired
Shading and fading
Realistically amused
Fused within reality
Surreal tuned vices
Meet-ups and sit ups
Outlines freakily patched
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Ghost Relics
Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
short legs
patched jeans
kicking leaves
piled to my knees
remembering color
living in sea salt pines
leaves little to imagine
of autumn rhymes
sweetgum sourwood birch
sycamore and dogwood
apple leaves beneath the plum tree
ash hickory maple and oak
mountains afire in Tennessee
eyes closed
smell of smoke-
kicking leaves
to the wind.
r ~ 9/16/14
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
(Male Female Plain-Both)
**A message that's always in my head,
Maybe it'll reach somebody, who knows?
Certainly I've always been this way,
A patched up, insane Matryoshka!**
*A package sung from a headache,
Time may pass but the hands are still at 4!
Don't tell anyone but the world,
Will turn upside down!*
**Ah, I feel torn apart,
Throw out all the memories too!
Ah, how I want to know,
To the deepest part...**
Uhm, well if you please,
Dance more and more!
Kalinka? Malinka?
Just play the chord!
What am I supposed to do,
With such feelings?
Can't you tell me? Just a lil bit?
Loud and clear, 524!
Freud? Keloid?
Just hit the key!
All, everything's to be laughed at!
Hurry and dance with all your foolishness!
**Clap your hands, it's not really childish!
And listen, to this chaotic fully-crazed tune.
I certainly don't care either way,
The warmth of this world is melting away!
After school, you** and me, rendezvous?
Rendezvous?
Rendezvous?
Or perhaps you'd like a hopping adventure?
With a crooked smile,
1! 2! 1! 2!
*Ah, I'm falling~!
Catch every part of me!
Ah, with both of your hands,
Catch me for me...*
Uhm, well... listen a little,
It's something important!
Kalinka? Malinka?
Just pinch my cheek!
It's just that I can't control myself anymore!
Should we do more fantastic things?
Pain, pleasure, hurt but don't cry!
Parade? Marade?
Just clap some more!
Wait, you say?
Wait, wait, wait,
Before we fuse to just one...
After school you and me, rendezvous?
Rendezvous?
Rendezvous?
Or perhaps you'd like a hopping adventure?
With a crooked stare,
1! 2! 1! *2!
Hey~ hey~*
Down with a cold?
Hey~ hey~
Show me your song!
Hey~ hey~
See how even today...
I'm still a patched up, insane Matryoshka!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**Hey, hey, hey!
If you'd please,
Dance more and more!
Kalinka? Malinka?
Just play that chord!
What am I supposed to do,
With such feelings?
Can't you tell me? Just a lil bit?**
Loud and clear, 524!
Freud? Keloid?
Just hit the key!
All, everything's to be laughed at!
Hurry, go and dance no more!
'Smooch' 'smooch' Kiss! This moment is ours alone!
'Smooch' 'smooch' Kiss! We don't care about them, not at all!
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
It is November
And all the leaves face my way
Overlapping tussocks of grass
Like long forgotten hills
Dwelling in the overhang of fall
It is November
Orange ribbons hand in tatters
Patched up yellow cloaks are draped
And whisking in the wind
Then drifting to the earth
And becoming winters pillow
It is November
And there stands a lonely tower
Base adorned with red bushes
Flags no longer flying
Crouched and crippled by the frost
It is November
My feet bear down on acorns
A thousand fold
All left and forgotten
Even to the squirrels
Just a layer ‘neath my feet
It is November
The solitary pines stand solid
Near the ivy covered wall
Their boughs raise and hail the heavens
And their needles fall
As the autumn wind dances a mournful dance
It is November
Bare branches rake the cloudy skies
And scratch out their heartfelt pleas
Against cold glass windows
Seeking what they have lost and will not find
It is November
An old gate stands ajar
Beckoning to no one
Standing solidly open
Despite the cruel fall wind
It is November
Trees make colored circles
A fading gold on fading green
A fireworks display
Now falling to the ground
It is November
Cold air fills my body
Cruel wind tosses my hair
I seek a shelter from autumn
My door is open
Now I am home
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
My hands gently sift through your silky hair
Pulling softly at the base to hear you moan
A shiver tingles down my spine at your purr
I can be impatient
I can be bossy
But you always give in to my urges
Ripping, tearing, biting, ******* a menagerie of ***** slick sweat ****
Bleed for me
What can they not understand about me needing that?
Crimson welling up beneath your ribcage
Only a small slice, small sacrifice to lay at your *** goddess's feet
Most bring flowers but only you know what I really want
Copper twist rot ****** at the base of your ****
I can only give love once
Broken and bruised you'll never get the same me twice
Reborn matted and patched
Willing to skull stomp them all to come out on top
Triumphant
Bloodied
Sated
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 1:09 AM UTC
I see you
I've seen those eyes before
Drowning in patched-up paddle boats
With promises of tomorrow slipping down your face
Like saline shipwrecks fleeing harbor
And greeting the ocean floor with damaged handshakes
And now you're hopeless
Focused on could have been's and maybe one day's
Knowing one day
Swelled up storm clouds
Could slide through your cheek bones
Like sunshowers preventing your skyline parades
But I see you still searching for rainbows
Covering your face with two handfuls of imagination
Daydreaming of days where technicolor dreamcoats
Become wrapped around your soul
Like tuxedos for the bold
I've seen those arms before
Deafeated willow branches in the moonlight
Rebellious to rise upright
And now you're tired
Only fired up when your flesh
Converts to kindling on a campfire
Building sparks that shimmer for seconds
When your light deserves a lifetime
But I see you still inclined to shine brightly
Trying to assign meaning to your life with two inspired limbs
That can freely build bridges or climb mountaintops
Clinging onto hope with sturdy fists
Exploring the peaks of your potential
I've seen those legs before
Tattered toothpicks on prom night
Frozen in stage fright on the dance floor
Pressing muted prayers with each footstep
Into creaky floorboards waiting for silence to ensue
And now you're nervous
You're certain those two left feet can't possibly find the rhythm
So your shoes are the victims of bashfulness
Fearing one false step will uproot your jitterbugs
And place them alongside the butterflies in your stomach
But I see you still owning your insecurities
Because you know you're alive just fine
I see you
You are who I envisioned you to be
I see you
Brushstrokes of imperfections shaded in perfectly
I see you
It's more than just your typical hello
It's a phrase for all of us to speak solely with our souls
It can make you feel at home at the center of your bones
When all your hope is lost and there's no where left to go
So when I greet you
Listen carefully
This is a reminder that your eyes can be thunderous
Your arms can be victorious
And your legs can be ambitious
Your presence is necessary for this discussion
And your essence is accepted here
Let me speak your spirit into existence
Seeing is believing
And believe me
I see you
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
Blue-grayish waves lap summer's sun-drenched beaches,
eternal, soothing rhythm, an enduring melody, into the soul it reaches.
Neighboring celestial bodies, conductors of the tides, creating eon's symphony,
embracing, pacifying music: a choral harmony.
Placid, glistening lake with fall moon's luminescent splendor,
silvery, reflective mirror, still and serene, lying quietly in slumber.
Bright, streaming rays, upon the surface, become as two entwined eternally,
brilliantly flowing: a beacon of tranquility.
White, pristine snow upon the meadow on a winter's early morning,
softly sown, caressing Mother Earth, pure and alluring.
Sol's rays shimmering on crystal flakes, a mosaic luminosity,
sparkling diamond facets: a blanket of serenity.
Dew-covered fields patched with spring's wild flowers,
dazzling array, vibrant and alive, displaying rainbow's colors.
A zephyr stirs bouquets of aromatic splendor, emerging reality,
a living portrait masterpiece--a canvas of vitality.
Nature, an ageless composer, conceiving kaleidoscope showcases,
perennial seasons casting actors on scores of different stages.
Wise is it, from time to time, to pause in awe and humble reverence,
and view a master artist's majestic, grand performance.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 5:32 PM UTC