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To Warm a Galaxy
Honey-colored heaps hide under cotton. Empty triangles fall up. Sunrise fades to a glassy voice piercing cold air, until warm toes wink into the void. I’m so happy that Dave found my blue notebook from Dec/Jan psyc ward. I found this poem dated 23 December 2020.
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Stars in the Morning
Twilight stars bright! In the morning, Shall they be gone? I have hope Morning of stars! This time they shall stay.
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Cradle
Please note, I was in the psyc ward with mania when I penciled this and wrote this poem. It still means something to me, but please interpret it as an art communication when I’m not doing well. I rarely create art any other time– too depressed and/or unmotivated. he climbs to the attic / he […]
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Seven of Nine’s Lament
Now do it again With your mess hall games
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rubber room
why aren’t you answering daddy? why is the policeman gone?
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fiery little girl
She is afraid of the globe But the globe is afraid of her And she hasn’t a companion to answer her riddle as she sheds tears upstream over sovereignty and reality
bughouse poems and art 