Kill the last Buddha!
Bury him with the other
lords you’ve rejected.
Heathens, aren’t we all?
Respects are no longer paid
to all other gods.
Visually impaired,
I smell a storm is stirring
- raindrops reach my heart
blankets of warm clouds
cover me gently at night
- the trees tuck me in
golden delicious
carved into newborn babies
tend fresh rotting teeth
For her I compose
short poems of endless true love.
Slap! She loves me not.
It is almost time
The work day is at an end
- I take off my mask
Monitor glaring
My fingers glide through the keys
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