a story tell itself; as we lay
together you and i; you, reading
Walrus poems, and i, sleepy from the
you said you hate poetry as your
words slip careless, garbled, from
your German lips, they fall onto my
carved from your schoolboy's mind,
reading as if the teacher was still
watching you, and enunciating
on the wrong syllables.
you said you hate poetry while you
read poetry to me; and i could hear
the amazement in your voice;
the anticipatory tone with which you
hurried to the next line; and you
paused, to reflect, three times.
you said you hate poetry with the
Walrus in your hand, and you grunted
when i moved mine,
and you continued to read poetry
even after you finished the poem you
you read it aloud with the hope of
understanding, there was no
judgement, no hesitation,
only your desire to know, to learn,
you are my poem, my story, my very
own Nobel Prize.
good morning blank pages
a cacophony of
hungry pigs greets me as i saunter down the hall
the sweaty heat gathers on my brow
chips ahoy are my new best friend in this home
an oscillating ventilator forms the rhythm of
the canopy of chlorophyll factories sway out my
birthdays come and birthdays go and summer
swings itself full
a Swiss man has left for work while i type
and raw onions burn at my lip
while summer begins.
turn your head poots and dream of the undreamed
while you sing the unsung. the warm air is colder
and the leftover hangovers leave you feeling
wake slowly and chew, chew, chew. if no one
then just keep on being yourself. time is the only
so yes december is here in all it's unsnowiness. it
Christmas begins with december. it seems that it
the twenty-third of this month to have four minutes
to sit down and ponder which month it is. Fitting,
this is the last december of the millenium. i had
this one to sit down and think of the minutes of the
perhaps one day i will do so again. but i imagine
that all the
fast minutes until then will go by quickly.
as we wind our minds around venezuelan floods
and women selling flowers with no shoes
there is nothing more understandable than
why do i have so much? must it then be
that they have riches truly unknown to me
it is getting late as i wait for the words
cramped up in the nettles of my brainspace
half my self wants the comfort of my pootchy
pants and a good stiff scotch while the other
stands tall on the treadmill carrying a laptop
and a pager and of course both can be seen
from the eyes of both extremes, that is to say
the woman with no shoes still sees my incredible
lap of luxury hunched over this plastic box and
the drop of drying scotch in my glass, while
i really have no interest in the bragging rights
of a 34-year old woman who doesn't use her
free palm pilot nor the plethora of fancy laptops
available to her. truth is, she's more interested in
finding shoes for that woman and spewing out a
few good words over here.
i will be back before the end of the millenium.
Cynthia turns 51 today; i could phone her;
my brain list;
for the weak coffee to jolt me awake or help my
the sparkliest sun hurts my retinas as it is
diffracted through the trees and window screen;
the nights i plan out my days and in the days i
distract myself away
this chewing is at epic proportions and the
largest of sneezes happened.
little gracie sings, reminding me of me, in a time she
didn't live in.
June 8 arrived while i was still thinking
about june 6.
sticky fingers assist in the chewing.
pollen assists with the sneezing.
it's a large band of
time interspersed with waiting for a phone call.
does anyone know how much i wait for a phone call?
to get a box of kleenex i must make the pigs squeak
and as the leftover taninns coarse my blood
i ponder how i'm still sharpening my humanity;
for a few more years now.
it gets harder and harder to pull myself away fro the
INFPs to write here:
they are kind: responsive: and human:
monday rain and wind
Some of june has gone by while it slips through my
as i bravely attempt to both survive and enjoy it;
on a rainy sunday i'm content to chatter about
they each have a face; borders; and their own limits;