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You speak of love as if you've

touched hands with it

and held it cupped,

shy against your sweaty palms;

You desire carnal lust but not

the conversation that wavers there

within it-

When you puncture keys

and scratch down letter after letter,

you say you've written of love.

But your sentences deflate

and you bring with it no passion,

no sorrow.

What is there left, when you cannot read of it

and know the underlying meaning

of such ventriloquy.

Your mouth moves

and a mechanical hand just shy of caressing your

brain,

tells you what love is...

Your thought process rivets around

at record player speed-

You've forgotten what it is,

your fingers lie to you

and so does that pulsating muscle

tucked under your ribs.



When you write of love,

you forget how it hurts.

There's a day when street sweepers forget to side step

on back home;

When their shoes no longer follow the motion of

legs.

Tiny joints that lock and load into place,

until they've claimed destination..

On this day

all coffee shops with lonely beatnik shadows

disperse and flip out the closed sign.

Artistic mind shut off for the evening,

go back home and write about that;

Oh!

What luck to find used book stores

empty.

Wet dust paperbacks stuck together in silent rows-

without a hand to glide them

onto another, less dusty shelf.

I've never really liked Sundays...

Deep in soft meadow

where many a daisy strood.

There lay a path

gave way to weather warn.

Where sandles bowed the bridges wood,

scraped the Earth along splinters hood.

and

Simply stay there in graceless timing.

Float of feather dust a flutter,

bubble-water rocks way under,

where twinkling scales gleam-

Smiling corners of flesh fold,

sticky hands.

The laughter of warm days

widens the pours

and welcomes today.

This day,

in all serenity.

Legs carried me up the park hill, into the overhang where a long bench extended from a Tree. Two of his friends lay still as I approached, brow creased and hand against my heart as if I feared their rejection.

Their bodies quivered, and I could not make out the language; hand rested by my side, slid up under them. Right then I didn’t know If it were my palm pulsing or perhaps their hearts; with maternal ease, they came to rest on the leaning tree, safely and thankful I should hope.

I stood still, the bird’s song around me and the Trees that hid the traffic came to silent voyages around my ear drums-in the corner of my vision the familiar yellow gold and black speckles appeared. His body was peculiar, arching just off the edge of the wood – My feet shuffled in the dirt, pad of my index finger gliding over his back . . . He did not move; For some notion, a curious people perhaps, cut away half of him and let it to dry and wither in the sun. A sadness crept into my pours, my sweat became tears.

The pit of my stomach protested, and I look back to the followers safely basking in golden rays on the bark- They didn’t move, nor inquire that they cared.

Hands found their way to dirt, my clothes sizzling against itself as I crouched; Dirt between my fingers and jammed under my fingernails until a grave was dug, every so often my right hand nudging away worker ants- Fuck the circle of life for a moment.

He lay half curled in my cupped hand, chopped sun shadow cooling and warming the tissue that stayed moist with clear fluids. If last sighs could be heard from my human ears, I’d yearn to hear my friends, to see a muddled expression on the persons face as he took the life of something graceful and dignified. As he took the life-force of something that did not know of its beauty; I’ve never prayed, but right then, I wished he’d wonder where the corpse fled too when he came to show off his pity prize. Perhaps god would cut him down the middle with a stick too.

When the Earth fell over his body, I felt it fall over my own skin. I was burying a friend, with a soul that transformed to fragile wings- Without stipulation, the joints in my knees made me raise slowly, the birds sang and the wind tussled my hair; Rocks protested under the sole of my flats and gave way with crunches.

Today I buried a caterpillar, and he awoke somewhere deep inside me and flew away.

There's a window half opened in my line of vision. Cool breeze that makes the curtains flutter, and spins the voices of outside past my eyes. Their conversation takes hold of my fingers, and I write about their mouths, and how the lips form the letters, move up into giddy smiles- Because today it is beautiful, and smiles are meant to be shared on days like this.