Archive for all the stuff I call poems that I have written over the last 30 years and that I still continue to write, oblivious to the fact that they might be little more than doggawn atrocious in the eyes of those who might not know how to generate within themselves the bliss invisible.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Teatime Buddhas
monks eat bread as a teatime snack, hot from the kitchen with swabs of butter, Tibetan style they wash it back in a salty brew that makes ‘em buddhas
