I Couldn't Imagine Owning Beauty Like My

Their Love As A Dragonfly, Skimming Over Echo Park, Stoppin To Visit The Lotus. Eating Dreams And Drinking Blue Sky.

The Sound Of Her Laughter Was Sticky As Sap, The Smell Of Night-blooming Jasmine Soft As A Milk Bath.

The Poets Are The Standard Bearers Of Language. Their Work Lives Or Dies Word By Word. When I Write And Can Hear A Clunky Sentence, I Try To Write Up To The Poetry That I Have Recited Beforehand.

Whenever She Thought She Could Not Feel More Alone, The Universe Peeled Back Another Layer Of Darkness.

What Can I Say About Life? Do I Praise It For Letting You Live, Or Damn It For Allowing The Rest?