It is no hard task
to sit with a book
& glass of wine
all night
waiting perchance
the end of all events;
patiently becoming
dumber by the words
and wiser by the wine;
serene and slumberous
in the certainty
that all things will perish
today, next morning
or in a thousand years.
Brush.
Faceless driver.
I keep replaying,
the violent curve –
my unlighted bicycle.
Pump ; drugged with
adrenaline…
bone crack pain coward
agonize no thoughts. I keep
replaying the scene,
the simple magnet of events.
I keep coloring the blood
against the asphalt,
drawing the feeling of crushed bone.
No thoughts and my eyes
on charcoal night.
To have died, doesn’t
seem so tragic now.
Death – finally!
Under the numinous
full moon!
Beyond Language 
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