1987, Domina, The Uncollected Poems



A gypsy girl stands before me.
A dark wave of sense
full dark eyes
which search me.

Clothed in shadows
her flesh recalls
the thrill of hunting wasps
on a raw hot tin roof.

Wasps gather around
clutching fingers
twisters on a gnat covered field.

I’m sorry, I’m wasted.
I can’t deal with this.
I’ll think about it in the morning,
when I wake up.

1987, POETRY, The Howling

I draw a moth

I draw a moth,
a hawk
dusty brown wings
never moving
life to paper.
It dies in light.
It comes to suckle the dream syrup
the nectar of light,
just before it’s caught in the fan
and spit out the window.
Wolf came to me,
long crazy black hair
dancing around his mouth.
“Why do you care what they think?
They only drain you of life.
Find those that give
by giving nothing to you,
but yourself.
Love those as you are,
not as you want to be.
Leave the acting for the Actors.

One must learn the first rule:
Always think for yourself,
keep control over your life,
the latter is the hardest part.”