the clouds must part
today they must do
as you say with vehemence
this too I shall do
because we cannot take this
beating any longer
like the dripping water
torture or the time test
and sweaty fists clenched
with fear and anger
coffee and starvation
except for us
no one cares
even the ones
who are paid
so handsomely
to do so
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
...singing in the snain...
singing along
to La Cucaracha
with new hope
I almost fishtale
off the bridge
thinking the snain
was just passing
through the grate
to La Cucaracha
with new hope
I almost fishtale
off the bridge
thinking the snain
was just passing
through the grate
Friday, December 07, 2007
...tv news kills the romantic in Seattle...
the new ones
were darker even though
you don't think so
dreary is what you called
them but they were rainy
this has to do with locale
the fact that you mentioned
turning on a tv
which I never thought
was an option for you
was your downfall
and the reason
for this aggressive stance
(welcome to our world)
all poems are political
were darker even though
you don't think so
dreary is what you called
them but they were rainy
this has to do with locale
the fact that you mentioned
turning on a tv
which I never thought
was an option for you
was your downfall
and the reason
for this aggressive stance
(welcome to our world)
all poems are political
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Monday, December 03, 2007
...conjugations of conjunctivitis...
not the flight
but the battle
not in the hardest stone
nothing like this
and the bloodshot
worsened with withered hours
and the pins and needles
worked the cornea
(the tributary image
reappears in the once-white
of the eyes, creeping
and creek-like)
until the drops were
administered and I saw again
what you saw
when we got back
home and lit up
the office desk lamps
and wrote about
how irony blesses
us with coincidence
and illness seeps
through the thin thin
walls like the wind
(more ironic that chronic)
but the battle
not in the hardest stone
nothing like this
and the bloodshot
worsened with withered hours
and the pins and needles
worked the cornea
(the tributary image
reappears in the once-white
of the eyes, creeping
and creek-like)
until the drops were
administered and I saw again
what you saw
when we got back
home and lit up
the office desk lamps
and wrote about
how irony blesses
us with coincidence
and illness seeps
through the thin thin
walls like the wind
(more ironic that chronic)
Sunday, December 02, 2007
...thousands of feet overhead...
the white lawn speckled
with dead brown leaves
and branches veining,
creeping into shapes
similar to tributaries
and rivers
from thousands of feet
overhead,
we sit warm toasted
by the radiant heat
and the pulse of a square light
that singes the hairs
on both of our arms
telling us that we must
move around more
or we will miss
the little features
we used to watch
of each other like
little television episodes.
It snowed to white
and I still do not know
what the small
of your back tastes
like today.
There's no punch like
or catch phrase here.
This is just the age
of the docudrama.
with dead brown leaves
and branches veining,
creeping into shapes
similar to tributaries
and rivers
from thousands of feet
overhead,
we sit warm toasted
by the radiant heat
and the pulse of a square light
that singes the hairs
on both of our arms
telling us that we must
move around more
or we will miss
the little features
we used to watch
of each other like
little television episodes.
It snowed to white
and I still do not know
what the small
of your back tastes
like today.
There's no punch like
or catch phrase here.
This is just the age
of the docudrama.
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