I should like to make slow, sober, focused love to all the stronger passions of humanity, tearing through the timid, the tired, the teased and torn, adding sugar to better taste even the bitter bore.

The smell of rust flavored grass sand not yet glass A dew through hair moved by dubbed wind matching my musk Bare knees absent mind unkempt thoughts not kept Two eyes look back miss each other and keep going We are All Right.

I stick a match stabbed the middle of my eye Squinting… and wincing… and winking… I strike it and watch it burn down… to the licking… lapping… wick… of my self It sputters and splinters and sizzles out And without evidence continues something more

If paint were left to dry… If imagination only a lie… If the whole world was to bleed from its seams… …the director left behind the scenes… Alas… Viva la resistance… …it dreams… …the beginnings… …and ends… …of things…