I just wanted to see where this line goes.  Maybe it will flow like goddess piss into

the streets, into the cups, into the dictionary, thesaurus, hearts and minds–cliché, hearts

and gullets–much better, until the masses are drunk of the knowledge of a line–

questionable?  Maybe it will zebra tattoo the dead wood into a unique individual piece of paper.  Black ink fingerprinted lines so when see it on the street you won’t confuse it

with any other.  not unless your a racist who thinks all paper looks a like–bad pun–

and this one looks like it’s down going down, down and it’s screaming to break free from

the prison of a paragraph, and maybe listen to the freeway or visit the big city.  I’m sure

they’d get a kick out of a line like this, like goddess piss full of whatever if your looking.

Knowledge or heartache super glued with cheesecake and a pint of cookie dough ice

cream, which is just a metaphor for exactly what you were thinking.  Congratulations.

 

 

 

 

 

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and this place

so afraid of silence that even the streetlights hum

static lullabies

and squinting.  the artificial gleam fingers starlight

and the darkest puddles vibrate to the music of passing cars

while these eyes shutter

the world outside sings loud enough to distract me from itself

and here, at the far side of 4am

i dream to the beat ’cause i’m so used to this

and maybe just a little afraid

of what nothing sounds like   

 

Every once in a while I call John up

in hopes that if I listen long enough

I can regain some of the southern twang I lost

in hopes that if he talks in detail

I can visualize the waves mixing with the sand

the sun reflecting pinks as it falls past my line of view

the sound of a sea shell when held close

in hopes that he’s the same John that spent the night every weekend

fighting sleep to play marathons of nintendo

or sneaking out to our ride 10 speeds at 4am

in hopes that the bond we had is still there

I called him last night, and today

I’ve gotten some comments on my southern twang

  

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I find myself counting

breaths…steps

so i don’t think of you every second just every other

which i hope to you means something

since i have nothing else to give

and one last entry before I call it a night-

 —————————————————————————–

she says on days like these
she’d rather be home playing hide and seek with waking
twisted and buried under a mole hill of white blanket
and even with her eyes closed
she’d feel the sun poking through blinds to whisper…
…whatever it is the sun whispers…on days like these
she’d rather be dreaming of transparent water
blue and green slowly mixing with the white sands
of a foreign paradise.
and the air, it would smell like the kiwi-mango lotion
that sits on her dresser. presently
days like these consist of her window watching
the sand birth mud,
wet and wetter and…
in the glass,
i can see her reflection.
personally, days like these
they don’t seem so bad

I wrote this long before soCal caught on fire.  I was out there myself for close to 7yrs.  My heart goes out-

 ———————————————————————————

The house across the street caught on fire yesterday. Electrical.
There weren’t any flames to be seen, no orange streaks dancing from rooftop to rooftop scorching the horizon.
Just smoke. Charcoal grey and thick as any fluffy white cloud dotting the summer sky. I felt guilty watching, and guiltier for enjoying the smell.

Lately-these eyes stay wide past the bedtime of the usual white-collar
and i spend the min’s trolling the local eco-blogo-systo-sphere-or whatever its being called these days- looking for what i could have been if i’d chose pen over tie.

but damn I look good in ties.

keeping with the theme so far- this is also about my daughter. for her 1st 1yr 1/2 of life- i found myself dumbstruck when it was time pick up the pen. But lately there’s been a nice flow. This was the 1st though.

 


Dreams Sneak up

The little one that looks so much like me
All ears and grin
She’s created an Everest of sheets on the floor
And bounces higher than any 2yr old should
grasping stratosphere
before somersaulting into the womb of polly-blend
surfacing for air—- her laughter echoes softly against the walls
and tip toes down the hallway. Into the kitchen. Out the door.
And the little one all ears and grin, still swimming in cloth
Speaks her speak. A native tongue I’ve long forgot.
But I imagine it goes something like “je t’aime, je t’aime ”

I stumbled across a poetry assignment on a writing blog. The topic was water- so here goes…

little miss sunshine
with her sponge bob umbrella pointed leaning-tower like
negating its purpose
& i wet and wetter say- come here child
let me show you how to hold it
but her like me in looks and ears that only hear what they want-continues
spinning and pointing towards house, car, grass not sky.
She radiates happy
the way she laughs and smiles
& i think that maybe for the last 23 years its me
whose been holding the umbrella wrong

-And sleep comes easy-

you lie so postcard beautiful
in the not so dark of 2am
sprawled out in the car wreck of sleep
toes dim lit by the afterglow of infomercials.
you turn and twist,
and I follow each curve of blanket and skin
like passing taillights,
up the long leg of road to back to neck
disappearing under auburn-brown hair
that filters soft through fingertips
and smells the way orchids should smell
light and sweet. as your smile
flickering bright, so eyes closed I still see.
you. and us

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