That art of fuge
Let bach rise in
The grass the neihbor
And I are mad for.
The top of my longues.
Every inch in my gut the air
Escapes with the scream
I saw this morning.
The lonly seagull flying
Over blue waves
Moves to fast to paint
The muse on sail boats
Searching fornwind.
The wind to go north.
Towards the border
Of new places.
The heart im told
Explains my metaphoric soul.
But from the angle I saw
Captured me with music.
How mad was john clare
When he saw the whole entire world.
He wasnt crazy
Im crazy to ingore
The muse.
The moonlite sonnata
And day breaking dawn.
Where the trees dead rings
Tell me thirty years ago
My mother saw six feet of snow
And she was glad.
Wennever can get tired
When we act like children.
The liberation hears every
Seed in a pink lady apple.
We were born to feel
The colors of art.
We were born to die in
The irony of death.
We came out with the ego
Of a thousand parrots
Repeat what youve learned and
Heard.  Give it to the universal
Brahma of creation.

have you felt life
palpitating your eardrums out of sleep
entrenched in expectation,

the telltale heartbeat of the morning
tapping, rapping at your door

the sweet dalliance with insomnia
under a moonlight sonnata
and the ardent awaiting of awaking?

not me,
I sleep