I close my eyes
and imagine myself at the top of a mountain
before a skiing race. I don’t just see myself there,
I feel the poles in my hands
and the snow under my skis.
I feel the wind whipping my face
as I charge down the mountain,
I hear the announcer excitedly announcing
a record run and the spectators go wild with jubilation.
I taste the victory…. Ha, this is bliss!

I imagine myself
walking barefoot along a sandy beach,
The sun is setting over the waters
painting the sky orange and pink,
The wet sand squishes between my toes;

The dreams of morning, at night, like
the countenance of infancy is so distant,
so second person.

This dusk death, a sallow spine of a
so-so book reddening by the reader
cut at the edges of paper.

I am pregnant with myself,
vines  curled  heavy  chains 
the child inside me wants to come out
& marvel at the sky.

The book, in a language comprehended, only,
when you flip the pages, fan them
& smell it- it
was blushing, that sanguine disease,
at the beauty of human mind
& the mind of human beauty.

Ruled his hare'm
nsync with trumpeting Donald Duck,
(loud enough to arouse Daisy),
the former cartoon character,
a pensive searing black kind Roebuck
heir to a fortune hauling trash and rubbish,

whereby dust bunnies repurposed
into environmentally friendly
electric kool aid acid tested batteries
powering many an electric truck,
which wolfed, kick/jump started
and guzzled down
synthesized reconstituted quality kosher product.

An atypical genre I did tender
wherein I nestled inside warren
peaceful nested litter,

Excitement  is the pathway to nirvana,
laughter ripples on snow froth city stream,
wave from bosom pal in gold dust setting,
rainbow fountain  promise of metropolis first light,
record-breaking thrust and drive a zest for life,
swift wing foot messenger shunning gadget for banter,
early morning trade on rapid rail link up, 
feedback from a frenzied friend enthusing about chances,
end to end relay at the whim of asphalt jungle,
blue chip town swarm peer into an amplified endorsement,
voice on hyperactive wavelength somehow on ice,

Fukuda Chiyo-ni (1703-1775), also known as Kaga no Chiyo, was a Japanese poet, painter and calligrapher of the Edo period. She began writing haiku at age seven and by age seventeen was popular throughout Japan. At age 52 she became a Buddhist nun, shaved her head, adopted the name Soen (“Escape”), and took up residence in a temple.

Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
—Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I understood in an instant, the distance between us, so close yet so far, he broke through the wind and snow alone and embraced his spring.
I stayed in the silent forest and couldn't see far.
Since you are insignificant in other people's world, why not shine in your own world?
Day by day, I gradually learned to come to terms with myself.
In the late night of each self-destruction, I find that I still have no progress.
My pride doesn't allow me to tell others about my broken days.
Only I know that I am a different person from before.