Red blood drips from the Sun’s wounds and flows from the horizon unto these silent shores….

1. The walls of your palace are made of snow. The game of reason is cold…

Butterflies are artists who fly around with paintings in both the hands They exhibited paintings to…

Sunday comes flying like lightning opening the golden doors of heaven on the wings of sunbeams….

A poem – Has a date with me.  When pain sleeps easy in my sinking pulse,…

  Nothing here’s worth a tick. I hid everything except the heads. They respect slaughter. They…

The mornings of my courtyard awaken to her yellow cries; she is the wrinkled meaning of…

“Even one’s own tradition is not one’s birthright; it has to be earned, repossessed.” – A….