I have written many poems in myself without words or paper or ink. I have been happy and lost and sad. I have spent the afternoons trying to figure the clouds and the nights waiting by candle light. the poem will happen in you: it will build and climax and…
how many of us have gazed into the depths of that eternal furnace, penetrating the blue void and the clouds, searching for a god to save us: Christ, Ra, Belenos or Apollo… yes, it would be grand to steal a cupful of the sun. and for a moment pervert the…
sometimes there’s nothing like putting the top down letting the wind mess through your hair the radio playing your song and you’re just cruising’ you pass by your old neighborhood by an old yellow bus going the opposite way the scattered clouds working your imagination the sunny weather like old…
the wind has come up around me, rearranging the sky and dragging the clouds and the sun west. now there is an orange glow behind the Camelback mountains. I have been pacing along a brick walkway, though the piles of dried mulberry leaves cracking in a fine brown and yellow.…
the day is overcast and I am south of Tucson staring at clouds through screen windows. this is how it begins as I type and this is how it begins as I sit and wait for the divine inspiration. today, words have been lost through humidity and self-doubt. concepts have…
tonight the moon is pale, and you, street light, I am staring at you through this dirty window. you have seen good times and bad times, accidents and arguments, stray cats and new moons. but tonight you are the moon, pale, drowning me, penetrating my window and destroying any rest…
I needed an outlet to get the truth of me out of me so I purchased a little journal and filled the pages with my experiences and my confessions and my inner thoughts. it was revealing too revealing and it frightened me how honest and to the point I had…