poem for a woman.

She is on the floor
of some ocean
somewhere,

dancing.

Unheeded by
crushing fathoms.

And the moon dances
on the current,
drawing her.

Such peculiar grace...

they move
as old lovers.

small poem

Dreams are chemical misfires -- Neorologic drivel.
And cigars are just cigars -- when I'm not dreaming about you.

From Robert Moss' "Conscious Dreaming", which now houses her photograph.

"Let there be made an image of dreams, which being put under the head of him that dreams, makes him dream true dreams concerning anything that he hath formerly deliberated of:  and let the figure be that of a man sleeping in the bosom of an angel....  Thou shalt write upon the breast of the man the name of the effect desired, and in the hand of the angel the name of the intelligence of the Sun." - Cornelius Cegrippa (16th C. Magus)