I see the stain on the pillow from
another night of nosebleed.
A bruise on my shin from atrophied balance
meeting the bedpost says good morning.
Straw like hair creeps back.
Evidenced by strands littering my bedsheets,
shining silver where once they were brown.
I blame the cold dry air of winter
knowing that would impede fluidity,
improve the …

listening to SRV on PBS
and trying to write poetry
is a very strange thing to do.
Not wrong, or uncomfortable,
just strange.
though I consider the guitar
an instrument of poetry,
a weapon of mass destruction,
with the aphrodisiacal power
of a candlelit dinner
followed by a warm bath,
the voice reminds me
that this strangeness is bought
with support from viewers …

I am not insensitive to the honor of having had
the opportunity to receive and give love.

An endless twenty questions, and it is his turn.
How many times will his world
dismantle and decay
until the rapid cycling nothing
is rejuvenated – starts up again ?

This Cold Love– 4 different looks– What a Difference One Word Makes…