An illicit love affair with bright lights and city streets. Big City, Bright Lights. Breathing art form, I am. A sculpture of divine light,. A carbon copy in the ant heap. But do not judge me. I have my own agenda.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. Bald head hovers, alien, as the Death Star above the trees. Waiting, Silently to gun them down in the violent e xpLOsi. Mushroom clouds like ash all around so only the bulbous crest is visible. To my beloved, Lauren Major.

She lay on his mind, tongue-tied; somewhere. Between Absinthe and dark water. A memory crept along the dim. There is an ache in her air she has no idea. She braves the street chill, words. Her worn Fedora; articulations in grace and. Her unravelling of his mind; prayermat.