I hear the wind gustsMoan through charcoal coral brush.The stove warms my feet.
Art need not be perfect, it has to be those colours which speak to you, that ink…
My local dealer of rhymes at the cornerLooks out for cops, asks people to wait in line.I am not a junky and not…
He was so cleverespecially this is yoursI had my own tonehow special I felt untilthere was this mystery ring
“That’s what poems are for,unlivable love.”