In the work of the world, everything is a poem;
slow petal hinges closing the drowsy flower -

What is this feeling towards the swollen Sun -
bulging gold with the light of a whole summer,

The first true blue day of summer -

a simple song formed, whole
in my gulping heart.
Kept

Philosophers...philosophise!
Make up big words about their lives
Of what they have seen
Their

To the north of the corridor
A dozing cat

Under maples
Your snowy tights
Every day as a

The other day I read a book
By a mystic, name of Osho
I read a lot of stuff by him
He has helped

To the unemployed
And you without coin
Be careful of who you envy
Do you want to work?
For

God called me at four
To remind me I was bi-polar
Arose and went, swiped a berry of

A single point
in a spiraling line -
mathematics of soul?
Language loses balance -
logic

Bursting forth from a thousand suns
The golden children were born
Fire flowing freely from their

The little, blind
black and white kitten
wandered off in the
night
got lost, slept
never woke

It was long
Dreary and sad
Forgettable
I’d leave any second now
To do other things
To think

Poor me, we cry, then wash our hands;
this world of ours makes such demands
and no one knows just

Awake again to tasks and daily ways;
Reluctant rise to foot the well worn soil,
the stomach calls,

The world, a cave,
a cacophony of echoes,
the work of voices and hands–
monsters and

My reasonable man,

I look through my caged body,

As you wipe away with disgust,

These

Curious Natures
In a more weak world the most aggressive advantages
don't always deal in what is

In a great desire
to be as longer
to be as faster
they lose themselves

In a great desire
they

When I depart from the realm of the terrestrial,
for the splendour of the celestial,
do not bury