We're both writers but,
why is it that we cannot
truly express what it is
we feel without the recommendation
of a movie reel-
We're both writers, so,
then why's it so difficult to row
through this murky sea
of dyed blue cotton-
-the softer things forgotten
between you and me.
Why have we not yet had our fill
maybe because we cannot still
we cannot put things into words
we're just translating notes we thought we heard
our lack
of vocab
is truly absurd.
We're both writers but
we just cannot
say everything we should have said
we just have to put those things to bed,
Curl up close with that heavy weight.
Pretend it is not too late.
So every morning our mailboxes tote
another hastily written note-
or you let those things just float
and give me lyrics that someone else once wrote.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
-
Another Indian woman living on our block has hair swept back and braided has jeweled toes, is in all yellow traditional regalia, and walks w...
-
sex object. not afraid of the words. I've used many objects for the sake of sex. in fact my body has been pretty disposable- I don't...
-
driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu...
-
Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. and...
-
as I left the waterfront and I climbed up the sandy stair as always his brothers were first; to greet me. I've had past dealings with th...
-
The Anchor for Joel When love embarks, with its generating propellers slicing through the interminable oceans of imperfection that are, for ...
-
Reminder "You do not seem to understand," they'd say "That rivers are wide, and are not so easily crossed, we fear, they ...
-
Private Edgar Perry for Edgar Allen Poe I reported for duty, a Bostonian, surly, moody, unsteady. Twenty and two, not eighteen, Yes, twenty ...
-
in August for John Keats I didn't die unrequited. I took a wife in August. My wife was wearing silky white shoulders holding out her bon...

I feel like this was written in a way that I'm not supposed to understand the subject, however, after reading it, I feel like I might understand the subject better than you had intended. We should discuss this piece some time when you're able.
ReplyDeleteglad we discussed it. It's something you really should consider more.
ReplyDelete