country grass in my hair viii

Peach poet
Under the highway eating bread
Stumble into tall grass
Lose yourself catch
A ride South
With your hounds
All your troubles
Can lay in my hands
Just for now, I see you
In the mist before the morning comes
Searching in dust for
Blonde baby
Travel safely
Towards home


country grass in my hair iii

When I’m loose at night
And my body’s in pain
Have I found fame?
Ugly and weird without a name
Will you be kind?
A broken beetle
Drowned in a bottle
A wizard handed him wine
And down the cobblestone
When there was no sun
Is where he lost his mind
He witnessed quiet rivers in the middle of city and
Fires of Poverty Boys
Special groves far from winter
Splashing in an ivory tub
Queen of simple justice
Swinging flowers from above

Life Synchronous

Marmoset captain, visage powerfully scarred,
Visits the Moon Loon, his master’s brooding sea bard.
Crystal laughter across the faded shores
Stands mocking the Moth King in the face of his hordes

Vicious sunrise, open parcels of dawn,
She stopped a runaway train
Silken weavers of war
Bending fragments of lime
Memories in time

Fading from mind
Faeries laying in green clovers
Leprechauns  braiding roots in her hair
Dreams are frightfully cast
On the King’s bed of glass


Ivory moss is thick like water

A man pulls a curtain and steps
To the velvet portico

Purple clouds are masked in armor

Cedar woods are lightly freezing

A hooded swan reveals his covered head
Draws calculus inside a pond
With the soft beat

of his heart

Amelia Earheart

Proud walk skinny with stained bodies
Observing reptilian sun
Don’t go away, don’t go away

Dirty mail sunk with Amelia
Scars on skin depict
100 year wars,
divine architecture,
and angels,
Don’t go away, don’t go away

Bodies of rising water
From mist to ice defined
The memory of this life
Lines to an unknown play

Don’t go away, don’t go away, don’t go away.

Ecstasy or Pain

Will you be sincere 

Whispering into the juice box (jukebox) scared

The music, after all the lights are turned out for the day, still plays for ghostly spirits past midnight once a perverted chill takes hold of the concrete.

In the Pacific North-West a lone trail rolls through forest bending into Klamath hill. 

An orange light betokens a cabin abandoned between the trees. And quiet you can hear Alan Vega from an uknown source, some speaker cracking in the dark. 

Only one hears the voices inside ones’ head

I may rise from the dust 

Sipping on juice box innocent, just a boy

Or someone else.

Am I queer to dance? Or expressing all boundaries of human soul? Is it still of me to question if I am man, or woman?

What do I do?

Whose name is moaned from my lips in ecstasy or pain?