Tuesday, March 4, 2014


In a room for everyone, I sit on a
high-chair-my bones connected to muscles and nerves
connected to skin connected to my jeans
connected to the leather seat of the chair
connected to the shiny floor connecting walls
connecting corners and the inside and the outside of the
summer-like weather sneaking through the door,
mixing particles and I breathe in and out, the fresh and the old air
connecting inside my lungs and outside around treetops,
traveling further and further
like a patch of fading smoke parting from the tip of a burning incense,
like my thoughts connecting to untold bits spoken to my senses as they grow
stronger every day as I am connected to nothing words can
express-almost as if the soul was a gateway to
feel the love that never dies with the dead.
I could feel a touch of a smile near my face, I can fee the warmth of a breath,
a mangled garden of a heart where a rose screams itself into growth
“let me be real” -he said, and there is nothing left to grasp other than
random visions that keep coming from nerves connecting nerves connecting the vast unknown
Universe inverted into old dark abandoned cells of the mind avoiding
daylight holding uninvited knowledge, and here on the ledge of a
landscape – is only my messy bed and some pancakes for breakfast,
the opening of the doors to another day in the usual manner, motion and speed,
the water boiling on the stove, I walk into an open suitcase left on the floor,
scratching and stretching, the mirror is a reflection of me on an average morning
of just another day.

Inspired by Patti Smith "Dancing Barefoot" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iXyU-p8Hk-k&list=PL435DDEFAA5D6A1F3

Monday, March 3, 2014



Jazz plays, and my wineglass sweats
cold drops next to my steak.
One perfect day after another.

A woman in her early sixties to my right,
orders a bottle of chilled wine;
her face … a pair of absurd,
black-rimmed glasses and
bright red lipstick.

I pray to my Kir to be in the 
right place, no matter how it is
a table for one.