"Great art is inspired
by the sub-conscious"

she nonchalantly mused,
lying naked on
the pink comforter,
sipping Pastis and water,
head propped on her palms,
a tiny glowing sphinx,
reading poems
with Cleopatra lips.

I half listen,
knowing the words,
knees at her waist,

molding child-like
cleavages with id,
tracing illusions in
firm, tan sand of spine.

Morning prayer

A mother-like gravity has awakened me
as if its laser has matched my force,
watching earth move through space
as a speck of dust through a lapse,
only to be consumed
by a sperm-like amoebae.

Meditating treelike,
lying in the grass beneath a poplar,
hoping to catch the stars disappear,
sensing the worms below
move in the soil,
releasing flesh to its desire
to be a mineral part of their realm --

a force strikes out at the dawning sun
in search of the great laser.

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