Tall summer grass
reveals the shape of the breeze;
only the siren of insects.
0
Even here among the snow-swept, desolate hinterlands of my consciousness
the itinerant shepherds sing your praises.
0
When nothing else is,
at least the rain is true.
0
The ego is a traveler
walking barefoot and wide-eyed
through the landscape of consciousness.
saudade brothers 
winter night in Shenzen
cold wind in a vacant lot
I throw up tonight’s rat
Roustabouts!