the moon spills its milk
in the dark
illuminating our intertwined fingers
until we're no longer just a sentence,
but the purest form,
the smallest meaningful unit,
no strings attached
an act of simple resonance
a morpheme.
Friday, October 21, 2005
descriptive conjugation.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
forgive us our trespasses.
i apologize
for failing to recognize
the honor and beauty of your profession,
for sticking up my middle finger when you made me late,
for cursing your existence and purpose
in this world,
for shuddering when you came home with dirt in your finger nails,
for resenting you while the others were clean-shaven and suited,
for refusing to listen:
what for. you're merely a hole-maker.
you must have wanted to bury yourself alive
for now as i watch them lower you down into the ground
i realize that i've already dug that hole for you
a long time ago.
hand over the shovel and give me my turn,
let me now scratch the surface;
absolve me of my pride.
Monday, October 17, 2005
reciprocity for as long as we both shall live.
we'll dance
in dimly-lit church basements
to the classics of our time
with a 50-year old disco ball hovering over us.
and i'll remember back in the day
when i sat and watched
and smiledat the exchanges of existence
as if they were all alone,
as they swirled to the music
unaware of the sighing watchful eye.
this will be our happiness:
built by dinner dances in basements,
quiet restaurants with torn leather seats,
moonlight patio dinners,walks in the fall,
good mornings and good nights,
kisses and raspberries,
and a word unspoken but often understood,
and a look that forever redeems.
and as we slowly amble back
to our white plastic chairs
you'll look down at me,
smile and say,
we've still got it.
and i'll lightly punch you jokingly,
as i've always had:
yes indeed.
Friday, October 14, 2005
moi, renversée.
a whisper
spreads a thousand beads
across my spine
my toes
until i have to breathe
quietly
softly
suppressing, repressing
so the tell-tale
oohlala
won't escape my chest,
my mouth,
into your ears
so that your eyes
keep me unfocused.
Saturday, October 8, 2005
to the ones who cry.
i am a patch of green grass, you say.
trodded on but overlooked.
you are, but at least you are not squares of green, lush sod. so appealing but manufactured by the hundreds, a conveyor belt product of the milieu.
realistically artificial.
whereas you, the lone patch, rise up and grow towards the heat of the sun.
you beautify and glorify the vast barren dry. you go unnoticed but are significant.
and one day you will be found...
and that loneliness and preservation that you have undergone throughout your life will be cultivated.
love yourself, patch of green.
for it is through suffering that we find the artist within us,
it is through our loneliness that we become stronger,
and it is through these changes we become more beautiful,
and it is through this interior beauty we are found.
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