a ballon and gold
a sky
that breaks
and a yellow flower on lion’s legs
instructions page 140
so, these are portraits… they were written for my poetry class. enjoy.
*
so is expecting
she waits by the door always
cold comes in kisses her cheek
then goes to the corner
where he sits
at the mouth and so waits
because eager
moments
wants more
so is every moment in between
so sits by the door never closed completely
opened fully so waits
*
chin held
higher blue
hair lost eyes above
she got around
back 50 years
a desk
*
a necklace a sticker a bottle of milk
a tip jar
a tee shirt
a calendar
an antique store
a pillow
a mug
an earing all touching
*
the cartoons get lost
and dropout forever under
your heavy blanket sky
*
these aren’t mine, these are yours
these aren’t mine, these are yours
these aren’t mine, these are yours
these i am so tired of doing this
*
he rubs his dry fingers skin
and finds words in his mouth
cupped clapped pauses breathing
into pockets beating
he rakes the back of his
voice for more
his pockets
are filled with two million
dollars all pennies
he loves
his hands sink in wiggle
a wave will wiggle seashells on
that tide him
*
you tease ceilings you
i have war paint in my shadows
all walls make room
you make you
break tomorrows tomorrows finger drawn daydrips
all on kinds of body
i make i strong
golden screws hammers thread fine
finer open faced holds hands high
together
fan hold hands and breeze you you kisses
higher
i touch you you because soft
*
they memory loved
all cobble stones
licking the pope behind the ears
sweet smiles all
and sticky sunrisingness
held in two
rotated in snowless globes
all still glitters and bubbles kindly
but nothing cold
only hands
tongues on colors
sugar from the start go
*
four old mouths drip money corners
lean in lean in
two windows scared to move refuse to open
all cups and bottles
lids and bottles
plastic glasses
bottles and fingers
all capped uncapped
all fingers on ears on
baptized in his papers heap
wet
they watch with their tongues
and wave goodbye
under water
almost
*
he old hands move words from air immediate
he shoulders shudder dusty glass bottles rattle cold
he cement grey cracks age around him heavy
he no eyes touch no eyes touch
he I don’t miss you
he walls inside are all warm colors
*
her
eyes embroider moments sunlight
blocked movement open in (sways)
(her) floors
small sweep dances in slow motion curvatures
curtains hide
and don’t (her)
reach in stretches in forward in back
each
defined space in
each
defined space
*
words on strings make love in knots
and trip
in between lips
hunting down throats
to find your lungs and
*
strong
wind he tips
over
all suit
his falls off
the floor wants
his love on boards
he is waiting
he is perched
is that his
in fond rememberance of an old friend
i once knew a man, eight feet tall and five feet wide , he was. as sure as his eyes were his sweet smile left something warm on you from that great height. he was made of warm colors and the sunlight seemed to filter through him with a golden yellow. he was tree trunk rings of age wrapped around his belly. his words were silent, and often nothing more than an assured sweet hum that reverberated it’s way up to your heart. when they took him apart they found he was all held together by small golden screws.
there were four young men walking and the street light broke through the gate – war paint across their faces. they knew they had won.
we held hands and won together.
There is a sensation that rises like bubbles in a glass of sort of bubbling drink that isn’t champagne. It starts at your toes and rolls up to the knee caps, tickling a little bit. like someone walking their two fingers from your wrist to your inner elbow, those moments of anticipation trying to guess if they are there yet. it makes it’s way all the way up, rounding around your elbows and curling into the pockets behind your earlobes. it rests there for a moment. (take a breath) (take another) The released and relaxed complete.your body releases itself from the tight hold of your shoulders. there you are just floating. your head a ballon, your body the swaying string released from a small child’s hand.
what roses smell like
Taped and glued
Into an old memory
With yellowing pages
Sweet dust
Distant lovers’ sighs
Onto the tongue of the breeze
And the air around you
Smearing your edges into the open
Air
Arm fulls of blessings, questions and kisses
Strung on long dirt roads
so sweet so sweet
things found sticky
try to lick your fingers free
only to find
your mouth in the somewhat compromising position
of needing to speak for you
words like honey golden
drip like a hot day out of your lips
and slowly saunter over to say “hello,
i am a little stuck. don’t you think you could help me out?”
what goes on here (?)
is it that the sound of a voice bounces off the brick-laced walls,
or have the red clay squares learned to speak after all these years
and like to flex their throats in acts of repetition?
the fields between old walls are only limited by the hours of the day,
and reinvent themselves every moment
due to such a strong emotional attachment to the sky.
the little girl who doesn’t wear shoes
and never steps on all the glass
likes to imitate the rain with the bare bottom pitter patter of her feet.
the ping pong table that might exist
Time sits – waits on
a graffiti covered swing
in a park that is reborn
nightly
and plays with lost children and lovers
Years cradle the head of Day
in a soft lap
no matter the audience
their love resides
in the moment Time forgot
not with words 