You are not the first to ache and turn green,
ill from the motion sicknesses and poisoned canteen--
As you hike up the hill of "What if?"
And once you spy the rat and you really get a whiff
It will become the mountain of "When" and the
ravine of "to be, not meant"
And barrelling down you now have been sent--
You have been sent to me like a telegram,
full of distant priorities, and "epigrams"
and lackluster wishing-well
Wishing me down a well--
Haven't you seen the proof
The reasons I am distant and aloof
I am decked out in black and white
and I am dancing into the night
I have drifted myself as well
And still you curse me to your hell?--
You do, and you do not know what you do...
No matter the trying he won't say "I do"
But that's not my fault
I didn't lock myself in his vault
You want him? he's yours,
are you not adept enough for the chores,
when he no longer wants you,
because the pawns in his game are too few?
Retract your claws, little one.
This fight's not as fun
as you think--
you'll soon be turning to the drink.
You'll have piles of nothing
and an empty container,
You'll need to bulldoze your ambition
and find your retainer--
I am nothing now, I am a picture, a thought
And coming back there I will NOT be dead, caught.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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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...
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like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
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motionless sap. ogling your shadow, you have much thinking to do. has the potassium kicked you in the arse yet-and got you going? you a...
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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...
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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...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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and now that the anger is gone there may be a few more glimpses like looking out of the window through a thin veil of silk. a look in...
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
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it's not possible. I think the problem must be- too much love and hate.
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secret fancies don't really bother me, alright? but know that once you tell me I become either like a turtle and snap my smile...
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