A weather vane, swiveled on its spindle, catching a cold breath of tomorrow. It was a wind that carried no sound, only the promise of change. Below, in the hushed valley, the world lay in wait. Only the winds knew how deep the snow would be—a blanket vast enough to quiet the earth, or merely a dusting of the coming dawn. The vane held its rigid vigil, a silent prophet of the chill that seeped into the marrow of the air. I...

Every time I write a line I take some more space I create a limb A jaw I am hollow And fainted in real world I create myself Only in poetry.

Your words were violent I flinched It happens often in the city I am used to it.

I have a jack daniel's And a pack of cigarettes labeled boredom On my table.

If we could only hold hands of each other And lean into each other, feeling the warmth of movement Without asking for fame Free of self doubt and care Career Just our bodies and minds Money For nothing, fruit for free Just hold our hands And lean each other’s warm bodies And run naked through open fields, And fall on a warm bed of thick sensual moss.

Staying under water. I had grown that natural attachment. Any time in the surface. I naturally made my way underneath. It felt better to my skin.

Poetry is madness A ritual I do, but do not know. A night that conquers, Drunks me to helplessness. And it kills shame, Guilt. It hits you like an exploding racket. It shoots out you naked.

And in the fog of stillness: «Do you realize how we are all chasing something in here?» Bees and their somnambulism, Chasing flowers Over and over So many times.

Breeze of cold. A song titled hope. Gulp of and urgent need for a cigarette. Need to sniff more of heavy ylang ylang. The itch of a pain. A warm wind. The soul lifting song. Whiff of ceder smoke. My soul soothed by patchouli. A healing touch. Amethyste & Jim Musics