With all control look for the hole, your mind gets weak, unless it’s truth you seek. Swirled and twirled into another world, into the smog, a doorway within the fog.
Nothing is inanimate; what is the rest is our interpretation.
Words rich in meaning can be cheap in sound effects.
We keep asking where they have gone
those years we remember and we
reach for them like hands in the night
If I began to draw
myself away from you
we’d still be like
two mixed colors of paint
impossible to separate.
Within my reflection I see tears, for what I see is the truth, are my greatest fears.
If the poets offered us nothing more than another make-believe world, they would be mere sellers of drugs or, at best, sweetmeats.
the only way
to be a poet means
with a permanent wound
of the sky
or someone’s eyes.
Poetry’s circular fulfillment was so persistent, when I was weak it gave me strength.