“Chaos should be regarded as extremely good news.”

Trungpa Rinpoche, Buddhist meditation master.



expensive fragrance
hangs thick
in the air
already scented
with your essence
sending its energies
direct to my sex

i pretend to be cultured
refined and full
of regal bearing
but full up is my mind
of wanting you
naked and splayed out
on that oak wood table 
with the detritus 
of our untouched dinner rattling
on the floor below
as we consume 
each other
tasting warlike passion 

“These days I find the necessity to click the button
showing I’m “with it”
far more important
than actually being “with it”,
whatever it is, at the moment.”

I miss the truth
Of the living moment
By being too busy
Clicking interest
In truths lived
By other people.



ink soiled 
splattered and matted
like decades on white porcelain
barely making out
blackredandblue tattoos
the mind muscled
grown from sinews
and a lifetime worth of attempts 
to achieve a rainbow effect
onto clean white paper

drainage clogged
stained stainless steel
and bloodied thoughts 
frustrated by creativity
it all floats
down here
the abysmal sinkhole
moist with sweat
desire creatively minded
stacked in piles
like newspaper and books

wicked and lost
these pens
out splash and lash 
layering fine sayings
onto paper
ribbon and taffeta like ink
mixed in old glory
inside the tower
of the mercifully depraved


She was my first poet. May she soar with eagles and teach angels to sing. Farewell, Ms. Maya Angelou.

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