I am troubled, immeasurably by your eyes. I am struck by the feather of your soft reply. The sound of glass speaks quick, disdain and conceals what your eyes fight to explain.

The world we suggest is a new wild west. A sensuous evil world. Strange and haunting, the path of the sun.

The Night is young & full of rest, I can't describe the way she's dress'd, She'll pander to some strange requests, Anything that you suggest, Anything to please her guest.

Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.

If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.

The world becomes an apparently infinite, yet possibly finite, card game. Image combinations, permutations, comprise the world game.