as an artist
although my portfolio of work
seems dead and long buried away in my memories
some value is beginning to emerge
as valued inspiration maybe
as history revisited maybe
as a moment in time expressed through creative eyes maybe
"come smell the flowers of the night"
a book i wrote
during
the first joint
american-soviet rock concert
outside moscow
1987
selling a dead peace of art
to bring new life
into the
heart of loving oneself
decades later
inspiration turned into gold
while completely depressed
by not being
completely present in the bliss
i am feeling like the dead tree
inspiration of decomposition
i am so sorry son
O
beloved one
