Wednesday, February 11, 2009

well-rounded bulbs

this is for you sweet dark hair
in the world we deserve it's written in paris

you're sitting by the window
playing with a clever design

i just want you here next to me
on my left, pointing, explaining

down below, the whispered wandering streets,
normal, as ever, normal

but not for us, for us they
they are all pictures waiting to be taken.


Tuesday, February 10, 2009

a phantom fair

I was walking west on thirty-second street
weaving grand histories in my head
Re-writing old chapters to once favored books,
No need to waste those smiles anymore.

The past is the hero's plaything,
light and malleable in his capable hands
whirring like the winter wind outside
the cracked sliver of my window.

And how the aching ages seem to melt and mold in my mind's discrimination
the dancing in this dizzy gut slows
with a warm whipped coat
and nothing cool to rock but a wayward keep to bear.

Up! Up now from your sacred foggy sleep
And fallen down upon this hero's burning stare
Dear girl, you look the same in every edition,
but your thighs, Oh my! they drip with moist affection.

Crater lakes with dark moon water
turning up and back at me with a misunderstanding.
I love you so and if I knew
the words,
the rhyme,
how time
folds and unfolds around us in the waking morning hours.