little dandelion seeds
i will save you all
red red red

tell me what to do
paint my lips rouge
prop me up with your bare hands

bore a hole in my cheek
let blood flow down my face
dry them with my sawdust

Phantom heart

A treacherous shot fired in the night: reverberating in my cochlea,

filling my eye with the most vivid dreams, painting the walls crimson; yet,

Beating softly still my organic clock,

too obstinately bleating yet for a phantom heart,

too unyielding a burden for the soul to lift,

my lamb’s essence cries for another life, in the ringing silence,

in the ubiquitous stillness, and finds the unwelcoming embrace of dispassion.

Poem: When it Rains

Rain drops: small and sublime are sliding, tapping on my shoulder, bouncing with irregular rhthyms–a parade in the streets–marching, beating, like the step, step, and swing of the legs to the rag-tag big band blues, marked by its siren singster.  A Wetness chills to the bone, accompanied by each sharp stringed cry, in its quietude, mysterious yet symmetric, and synchronized to the ocho–stomp, stomp, and swing of the legs–and cresendo, repeat.

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