Empty passion fruit shells.
Sour tongue. sour lips.
One am.
Wet towel on chair.
A distant hum of a brewing resistance.

I wonder about the challenges of decision-making in a democratic forum ,one which is slowly taking form, emerging gingerly but with determination. Afraid that it might remain a prisoner of our imaginations, we try an breath it to life by bouncing ideas in cyberspace...

book of Neruda's poetry on the table.
I havent read a single word. But it lies there for
good luck and affirmation of a world full of
magic and pretty sentences.

I used to write a different sort of language. My words were arranged with large open spaces between them so that I could hear the whistling of the breeze through them or even catch a the last glint of the setting sun. nowimafraidmywordsareallbunchedtogether.

I dont want to lose poetry to the grand sounding words of politics and academics.

Don't make me choose.