I dream in paisley printed paint
with flowers in my hair...

Captured in my small scribblings
you think you glimpse some goddess...

Sometimes
after I paint...

God, I'm
drinking...

So to avoid the sin of self-awareness
let's all pretend to humor our pretense...

Oh, you are bright, my dear tormentor,
bright like a blade, and as cruel...

Today
When the sky was the soft blue of despair...

If this, my pen,
could rightly scratch the surface...

That sculpture you made,
the one with four...

Syllables tumbled murmured
into shoulder mouthing, sweet soft wet...

The tome in prominence
on my shelf...

I spotted God the other night
turning a corner in my mind...