The Endangered Species

An artist has a heart

made of glass.

An Oracle with which

he renders his visions,

an oculous

the soul.

So treat it tenderly,

or its shattering

will tear holes

in the world,

where quiet beauty

once existed.

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The Muse in Wolf’s Clothing

Incubus, you’re stupid:

seeking the devil outside

when he is in you.

Incubus, you’re lonely:

no one left to pander

to your simply ridiculous moods.

Incubus, you’re dejected:

but to speak plainly,

you’ve never been fine.

Incubus, you’re special:

your derangement

gives me plenty to write.

What Color Is My Parachute?

Living at the

precipice of

passion and madness,

doesn’t usually

allow for a direct tv subscription.

Or soccer Saturdays.

For very long, anyway.

Some call me

impulsive,

impetuous.

But I consider carefully

the consequences

of playing it safe

in this one wild life:

there is no security

in taking a running leap.

And crashing

can crush you,

but oh, brother,

what a ride!

Lucy and Vlad III

He wasn’t much

to look at,

covered in tattoos and beard,

he liked Chet Baker

and the Pixies

a little too much for me.

The long lunch breaks

were the best, though,

going back to work

with his smell in my hair,

locking the studio up,

scraping paint off my knees.

But he always read my poetry,

he was the only one,

in fact.

he even wrote some of his own

sometimes.

Far apart,

we’ll always be together

he

in my words

and me,

in a swimsuit

on his canvas

Muses Christ

What a boon

to discover again

the muse.

Even though a city itself

can’t provide

the physical satisfaction

of a human lover,

there still is intimacy,

this time, perhaps,

with myself,

and the music.

It fills the soul.

A little hoodoo

in the rum

and sweat

down my neck.