A flurry grays the Vernal air
as clouds of speckles swirl and mate,
euphoric, blazing, unaware

of windshields on the interstate
hurtling through their fevered storm.
These whirlwind-wings pursuing their fate,

in red and black above the warm
blacktop, link and live three days.
Tripping on truck exhaust, they swarm,

convinced it’s flora which decays.
They catch the fumes, sweet as the spice
of rot, home in on motorways

and, as they’re turned to mush, think, “Nice!— 
manure, grass clippings—paradise!”

The cold, brisk San Francisco evening wind howls
Through the canyon between Davies Hall
and the Opera House
The wind creeps, sneaks
Into the doorways strewn with covered
Hidden, bedecked homeless
Resting in hovels like turtles
In their rhinoceros skin
Peeking out at the guilty, flighty passers-by

Unshaven, covered with ample woolen clothes and blankets
In cardboard houses, each a misfit
Spelling the story of insane bestiality in its most base form
In alcoholic stupor to forget and sleep
Someone shot, beaten, maimed

I am a ghost.
A ghost in the land of the living.
Just passing time, here and there.

It's not my time or so they say,
that I just need to come alive again.
Find the good and erase the bad,
before I truly end up a ghost.

nunc virtus meus meam pravitam praeponderent
solum spero atque me totus in totum opprimunt
si quando timorem desperatione vincatur, si quando...
heu, nescio


Translation:

now I can only hope that my virtues outweigh my vices
and they weigh down on me through and through
even if fear could be defeated by despair, even if...
eish, I don’t know

Whenever, and whatever we are doing,
we always stop and watch
when the clouds of paradise
go rolling by.

We see the chosen revelers
in their endless cosmic dance.
We imagine the joy upon their faces
and the glory shining in their eyes.

Every now and then one dances too
close to the edge of their puffy
stratosphere and tumbles far
to the Earth below.

Their shattered forms
scattered across the landscape
share our legends and domain.

When the night is clear,
the sky free of paradise clouds
and others of less distinction,

When I look up into the sky I see you looking down on me When I look at the stars I see the beautiful light Reassuring me that you are happy up there Keep on shining.

In the abandoned street
I draw the outline of the house in chalk,
pieced together from photographs
that survived the fire.

Along its imagined perimeter,
I find the room they brought me home to;
gas fire lit by a tear of newspaper,
fed through plaster bricks.

Steady flame in wet eyes
my Father holds me delicately;
all the dreams he has for the boy
become tapestries on the living room walls.

I mark the spot with a zero.
The windows in the photograph begin to strain;
a refraction of light, glass shivers,
tarmac pours in.

My Green Guitar is old and weathered 
Your new white guitar is new and shiny

My hand grapples with the strings and choppy notes come out
Your fingers caress the cords and graceful melodies grace the air

My hand strangles the neck holding for dear life
Your palm offers a gentle support to the stem of the guitar

My guitar seems oversized in my lap making me uncomfertable
Your guitar seems as if it was built for you crafted out of the same stone of which you came

My guitar is chipped and battered
Your guitar is polished and untouched

Too many emotions, but no suitable expressions Why do I constantly let myself be controlled by your actions Years of enlightenment, education and discussion But when I'm before you, I still can't round my argument With my eyes closed, I can paint your features But I am never able to pin down your colors You are a pulse beating continuously in me But I can never grasp the rhythm of your heartbeat You bring out the best version of me But it is also you who cause my ugly side to show easily I can never sleep without your soft breath brushing my face gently But it is also in the cocoon of your w

At the host's somewhat awkward
offer of sparkling wine

on the terrace overlooking the valley

as the mid-afternoon sun drizzled through
the lime tree and Californian poppies
shyly fringed the farmhouse wall

before the first bite of olive cake
before her husband turned the elm
before the tajines lined up on her beam

with no thought for her caved-in roof
no notion of the rogue cancer cell
but after she said that water finds a way

around a rock

not over it

she returned, What a ridiculous idea.