Who knows  tomorrow
The window will be there
To see such expanse of sky
In your greyish eyes
Blue shadows of invitation
For a nest of peace
In the window blinds
And behind
A crimson indulgence
In raising ripples
People are born
To live for
And adore
Such windows
Of beauty and joy
The only support
Amidst the convoy
Of blood  and sweat
Of terror and threat
On green grass
In Las Ramblas

Who knows
Another yellow rose grows
Tomorrow too
Let's celebrate therefore
At the window door
Some life in exuberance
Some moments of fragrance
And then silently lie
Under the now violet expanse
Of the abundant sky
The wind blows cool and slow
Oranges in the window

shout out
****** a brush right straight down
the elemental throat
take all the things that make white
and paint the suburbs the city streets
the acres of corn fields variously
neon naked ladies
the truck stop babes
the pimps in black
the red and green lights yellow
caution
what is this canvas
if not the stew brewed now unfrozen
a big silver spoon
slid into
a commotion
a shotgun blast in a robbery
a bank
making false accounts for profit
the last ounce of street cred
blood leaking on the pavements black
they have power
those archangels those who preach
make America great again
I wanna go to a rally for
four years
have a maniac
speak dichotomies
like a psychotic
schizophrenic
one day sane the next neurotic
I take the brush and whitewash all of us and maybe
the nazis and imbeciles might pass  us by

Lenticular clouds
Quickly mask the mountain top
Morning chill persists

Love is a dish best served cold.
Or should that  be revenge?
Often they're interchangeable,
As the outcome is similar.
It's wise to fear both,
Both unexpected
And most anticipated... and dreaded.
They come out of the blue.
I excel at neither,
Though I keep my platter
On a low shelf.

from the dead embers
flickering, a blue flame
leaps up and dies
the final wisp
twisting, writhing
disappearing
into the night breeze

Pen in my hand,
Door on my side.
Been two hours I simply am sitting.
Could walk off by shutting my copy and breaking the tip of my pen.
But what is it that I want to write but still can't.?
I have so much but still unable to portray.
I realized that I really cannot reveal my pain through my writings because I don't want this world to fall in love with my melancholy.
"Let me live in pain. There is a strange healing".
And I walked off by shutting my copy...