In
writing on 08.10.09 at 12:16:45 PM
the line that traces down your hair
past that spot on your neck
that only we and the poet know about.
only i haven’t felt it yet
but you know it’s there and
with my words i could find it past
the couplets using your hand as a guide.
that line tracing down your back
past your hips to that place just
above your leg that you tell me about.
i am sure that it exists even though
my hand was made to its measure,
or so i have been told by the carver
of your virtue who betrays you in sleep.
the line traces down to your feet
drawn by the hand of a painter
long dead but not forgotten since his
final work of your masterpiece
hangs in that museum with the overflowing
gutters of warm summer rain drenching
that window i peek through in your dreams.
In
writing on 08.07.09 at 09:55:28 PM
Angus&Julia Stone//Paper Aeroplane
i know that the pillow
only fits my head
shaping the feathers next
to my exhaled emotion
and hair
tossing
round
and
round
and round
with midnight behind
the silk of what your hands
could steal away
underneath my willow.
i know that the sheets
only form the linen
of ballerinas prowling near
the window breezing
and limbs
turning
over
and
over
and over
against the mystical
framgment of what your mind
could be gathering
by the side of my street.
i know that you are awake
even though distance
is folded near the feet
of my nightly bed
and breathing
in
and
out
and in
is all that inside
every one of these moments
hearing you take
that dream for sleeps sake.
In
writing on 07.28.09 at 05:27:47 PM
complexity is a virtue wrapped
in the irony of wishful thinking:
mixed with the wooden spoon
of self imposed betterment.
even though that is like folly
trying to perfect the rough edges
of a monogram cast from the dies:
tapping, tapping, tapping
out the morse code like fingerprints
slowly drifting off the clocks
that go
tick, tick, ticking from where
you are and where eventuality will be.
simplicity’s sexiness is quickly subdued.
escalation is a vice nestled
in the economy of wistful blinking:
caressed by the molten truth
of sweat
drip, drip, dripping down the
small of your back as you
know where to sleep.
In
writing on 07.25.09 at 02:25:43 PM
one can count syllables by clapping
but what is the fun in that.
one can count audibles by snapping
but where is the truth in that.
game plans are for those that can’t
wait to see the ending of every
story told before the page turn
of a choose your own adventure paperback.
one can hound cattails by watching
the frogs and rabbits jump from
pond to pond to pond to frond
but how is that mystery at hand?
eloquence is for all of us that
can’t find the fortunes buried
deep in the sand by those that
won’t wait until the stream runs dry.
