when i’m in the middle of dream
i love you so carefully
walking inside your Soul

Everybody seems to think
i’m Crazy
i run and walk into the
trees with weeping willows
i cry – like a dream

I’m just me | poet so poor
and weeping

Everybody thinks I’m lazy
they think i’m crazy
until one poem catches fire
and then they realize

I’m only sleeping.

:: 03.19.2023 ::

Muscle-bound goons. The kind that rape the world. Self-satisfied, in no hurry to devote their remarkable faculties to understanding another’s mind. Such wise men. Stares as blank as summer nights, red and black, tricolored, golden star-stung steel: twisted features, leaden, pale, inflamed; hoarse guffaws. A grim onslaught of pretense. To hear what these kids would say about Cherubino in their rough voices and violent ways. They’re heading to town to get it from behind, all decked out in sickening luxury.

A violent Paradise of runaway sneers! But no match for your Fakirs and hackneyed theatrics. In costumes sewn together with all the taste of a nightmare, they strut through assorted laments, tragedies filled with all every brigand and demigod missing from religion and history. Chinese, Hottentots, bohemians, fools, hyenas, Molochs, ancient lunacies, sinister demons—they slip savage slaps and tickles into your mother’s old chestnuts. A little avant-garde here, some three-hankie stuff there. Master jugglers who use riveting comedy to transform players and scenes. Eyes ignite, blood sings, bones stretch, tears and red rivulets run. Their clowning can last minutes, or months.

Only I have the key to this savage sideshow.

:: EPRobles ::

i would sink if the moon left these shores!   picture of myself,
bright floods!   seeking shadowed roads.  Of yellow and green
cellophane hearts – into the willows of an old courtyard.
   O my dying quiet hearts of arts and wordsof black dog,
brown shepherd hungry formasters -bitter peaches upon the ground :  
while sulfur and evil drown in shallow swims.
Oh but Lord!   through amaranths and Sahara bluesas fire and creepers
seep through the widow’s cage!    i walked Guianan without shoes
and flew throughthe ducal window on such a moonlight as the blessed bindweed. 
Across ages of time and hordes cross our agedEurope.
Every soul crosses the moors -all warriors!

In the forest glade, the faun roams,
A creature of grace and beauty unknown.
His forehead crowned with nature’s gems,
His eyes like spheres, precious and unknown.

With cheeks stained by wine and revelry,
His fangs gleam, his chest a lyre in motion,
The sound of music between his arms,
His heart beating with wild emotion.

In the darkness of night, he moves,
His thighs and legs like a rhythmic dance,
The forest alive with his presence,
A creature of magic and mystic trance.

The faun, a creature of ancient lore,
A symbol of nature’s beauty and power,
A reminder of the wild within us all,
A call to embrace our true selves, every hour.

:: 03.19.2023 ::