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)

A confession

I have not gotten out of bed today.

"Moonchild" by King Crimson, Christina Ricci scene from "Buffalo '66"

Some days I just want to dissolve.

 It has its different forms.  It can be beautiful.  I have always felt the original ending to "The Little Mermaid" is beautiful.  The Disney version is repugnant.  To turn into sea foam, be washed away.  Is Ego still there?  Like everything else, moved by the moon and the tides.  Above all else, I want to be on a beach somewhere with bare feet in the sand, staring at the moon.

...And every day objects are so provocative.

I bought white tiger lilies for my dresser.
They're practically pornographic.
When they blossom, they're as big as the moon.
It's under their incandescence that I sleep, and dream about you.