There is a lupine quality to the way I love the full moon. My love for the full moon is lupine. I might be a werewolf.

— Sam L. Marcelo (@samlmarcelo) March 18, 2014

Stranded in a sea of bleeding brake lights, the weary seek comfort in the long night's moon.

— Sam L. Marcelo (@samlmarcelo) December 18, 2013

Sheep-like clouds grazing on blue sky. Butterflies playing a game of tag. A pale pink flower dancing on a concrete driveway. Today is good.

— Sam L. Marcelo (@llmarcelo) August 29, 2013

A procession of tears. Cinereous skies. Who do the angels mourn for?

— Sam L. Marcelo (@llmarcelo) August 21, 2013

The moon is gravid, succulent. A low-hanging fulvous fruit I want to pick from the sky with my lips.

— Sam L. Marcelo (@llmarcelo) June 25, 2013

PMS turns me into that dude in American Beauty

I saw a flock of birds swooping through the air,
a pair of balloons pirouetting in a pas de deux.

I cried.
Then stopped.

Comforted when I heard the wind combing through its lover's hair.

After Art's Fragmented Memory

[VII2311]

Dead bird, bare tree.
Skull, ashtray, and gun to head.
White flower, wooden chair.
Empty landscape, color-bled.