There is a green stream which runs
through my heart like a webbed root
fresh and hot into my mind’s eye at night
when the owls freakishly glare with yellow light
bouncing into the secrecy of immortality;  I
finally pierce the sieve of semi awareness.
In the flighty, senseless fire of dream’s vulgarity

These veins quiver, and when I blink
I become a Cyclops eye, an omniscient fly
Spying the tadpole in the stream of this dry mind,
wriggling towards grander seas, I falter
A rabid dog, gulping away from water,
and the ethereal portal which caught,
wedged between the misery of Time and Death,
jolts misery back above the waves,
and there is only one “I” to blame
when nostalgia breathes from lung to heart
whipping tendrils of innocence violently apart


The Freudian eclipse
Turned his boon to art

The river of pseudo wakefulness lingers
on the Freudian breeze, maladroit and at unease.
These fingers pressed with ink will not appease,
the wild stitch, on which the sap that slowly runs
down flesh and fervor, the voyeur moon that grunts
A blunt dissatisfaction with which all species
of writer must grapple, patiently biting his sour apple
by candlelight in a munificent shawl
wrapped in comfort, maimed with gall

Sitting here by my windowpane, imbibing the sins
tangled in the stoic wind where art begins
and sad poets suck on gin, and their tired hands
bleed irritations, reflective as oxidized tin
a rainbow of phantasms stuck as a fin
in the elderly wrinkles of half-worn sleep
where we count sheep, count and
finally fall deep