Saturday, May 19, 2012
make me laugh, I dare you
my life.
a hunger strike for food.
so there it is.
I hear the talking.
loving words.
"just try and make her laugh,
I dare you."
"she laughs, I've heard her laugh,
she laughs with her whole body
and sometimes she'll spit out her drink.
but it's a trick to make her laugh,
if you do it, you've won her over."
"no she doesn't-"
"yes she does, god, you don't remember
anything even though you were there."
mock the rapid impetuous.
I cough, shake and quiver.
my heart blooms.
there is a moment of spring.
my teeth are shiny snow.
but my ears are stuck.
unloving words.
"Not now dear, mommy's busy"
No more laughing.
I might be a failure.
a coward, a thin-skinned quitter,
a loser,
my backspace says otherwise. click click click
oops, is today the perfect day.
for a good cry? I melt.
a popsicle in the sun,
I don't need to say these
colors are frozen most of the
time,you know, just try and make
me laugh today, I dare you.
the heat, the heat
it always gets to me.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
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...
-
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, ...
-
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...
-
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...
-
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...
-
Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
-
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...
-
confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
-
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...
-
it's not possible. I think the problem must be- too much love and hate.
No comments:
Post a Comment