Like the dry fish bones discarded by the cats
Moving on each corner by the rats
Roof top scare crow sitting on the shaft
Smoke emitting out of the chimney mast
Snow settled ready for sometime to last
Cyclops idiotic eyes blast
Howling terrific wind's cast
All favorite furies remain past

keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­
                                                                ­ l                  to is what the sound
                                                           ­      i            n
                                                  ­                s           e
                                                               ­          t

                                                              ­                               v
                                                               ­                         a        e
                             ­                                          of the  w               s
                                                               ­                                       
                         ­                                                                 ­            tells  you
                                                                ­                                        to do.

The immortal is the time before the rain
When we have thoughts of it afterward.  
By then, the mosaic of tongue and its words
Are broken stones swept away
By the shuttling broom of storm.

Alstroemeria, Southern-rooted watcher of the skies,
Angel tongues of Peru, with your ******-blushed annunciation
Or Incan-hued sacrificial fire.
So much like the moon tongues of all rivers in first frost or first harvest.  

Like first love, first death is the truest form,  
And blooms in scorn of all its many-mirrored rivers to come.

Our bathroom wall,
light blue with a glitter topcoat,
looks gaudy and childish
in the daytime.

At night, by the glow
of a small nightlight,
my eyes blurry with sleep,
it looks as though
a piece of the night sky
has materialized before me.

I’m on the fine gray line
between the living
and the divine.

My eyes flash between the memories,
Trying to figure out which ones are new or old,
Which ones are good or bad.
Have these events actually occured?
Or are they creations from my own mind?
Sometimes it is hard to tell what has actually happened, or what was simply a dream.

Reverie,
come over me,
wash into me
To take me away
from this madness

I know that I am good,
that I am a lightly colored soul,

But sometimes I feel the darkness
welling up inside—
I force it onto myself
so that I don’t hurt anyone else.