I sit on every chair
because there is no proper place
for the art
in 2008, 2011
Water-drops of my drying shirt.
The chimes of St. Genevieve.
My ruthless head granted as a custodian by
the issues of spirit.
What an ordeal;
My bones in the soup
of the mud inside
I am messing about with disaster as my code
and the evening star as my emblem.
My thought is a paper moon
and my place is empty:
I am sitting here and drink that rosy wine
the murky pain that throbs the vine
of my life.
I am by the side of the man who writes
I donít write
I appear through
arrays of expressions movements
No matter from where the poem will pass
I will grab it.
come and go;
nobody needs observations.
The clime suddenly
rejected us Ė
A minor blues.