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I know it’s been a while…here’s a poem I wrote a couple nights ago when I found myself unable to sleep.
I cannot conceal the righteous rhythms,
The tempered resonance of the night.
My mind’s at crossroads, and my eyes-
Tracing the pillow’s embroidery,
Minute and directionless.
On a different note: I plan to start a new blog. Just for things I like: philosophy, fashion, thoughts on life, music, and whatever comes to mind.
Untitled (from Word Perhect)
tell me what I need to know
to get you back in real world time
a magic wand doesn’t do shit
hep me find the heart of it and crush the problem with a duled knife
sing the blues but do it alone
watch out for garden gnomes and keep singing
tel me what I need to know
to get you back to real world me
wasting away you’re full of it
help me find the stomach and crush the life with a sharp knife
His hand moves, stealthy and light,
The smoothing tread of his fingers pressing,
Caressing.
Disembodied and far, his eyes wander,
Widening, scanning the scene.
And still his hand moves, inching, creeping,
The black apparatus warming beneath it.
Her face leaps into focus,
Clarity restored to the world.
Funneled behind the little lens,
A trick of perfection.
“Don’t move.” The careful hand withdraws;
He holds his breath, shifts his grip, waits, his heart beats, “this is perfect” he thinks, “this is it” but it is all a shadow of time and really what happens is he blinks and taps the button and the strobe huffs…
She blinks and smiles, shifts her weight…
Sliding out of focus…
The hand comes back up…
“Perfect…”
Sketch: Words
Wander ‘cross the page
Pretty little mage
Shining little wizard word
Curt in frame and age.
Sing a tinkling song
Frolicking along
Put a smile on my face
Though your spelling’s wrong.
3/7
Sketch: Fence
Border me, golden field
Swallow me, whipping wheat
Beat me bare, batting breezes
Crack me dry, summer heat
Paint in chips under sunny
Summer skies, arching blue
Over skipping children’s laughter
They play the fence, too.
3/7-3/25
My Room 3/17
Who am I? My soul’s in piles.
A jumbled mess, a sloppy kiss,
Like rumpled blouses on the floor,
Pick ‘em up and find some more-
More socks, more books and wandering pens,
Who knows? What’s lying in wait
Is best left, my mind’s too far
Up high, down low, no care for tangles.
The dust crowding like scattered spangles
Makes no mark on smiles nor pouts.
The floor hidden ‘neath distant shouts
Is only ground. I see a soul.
Pressing the cool tiles
Fingers break the ivory geometry
Graying lines, blocked and defiled
By a damp human intrusion
Eyes tight with thought
The heat stings my back
Leaning on knuckles in knots
I still, and watch my skin age.
2/23/09
The Periled Point: A Poetic Journey 