he's crying again.
or singing.
and this time he's lying down.
i would fashion a pillow for him,
to rest his tired orb on,
but i wouldn't know who to address it too.
The Moon
Earth's Gravitational Field,
Solar System 34559b, Milkyway Galaxy 12958
the note inside the box,
underneath the pillow,
would read
"I thought you might be tired, so I fashioned this pillow for you.
I thought you might be allergic to down feathers,
so i filled it with all the love i could fathom.
I apologize ahead of time if it is not comfortable,
or if it is not enough.
i just want you to be happy.
Love,
little me. "
and after the pillow is sent to him,
i'll curl up on my bed,
pretending to believe myself,
whispering "you can make more love,
you have it in you"
and knowing that i'm spent.
tired, alone, cold,
the moonlight will wash my windows,
bathing me and my bed in light,
pretending to believe himself,
he will whisper "you can make more love,
you have it in you"
and together
we will know
i am spent.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Friday, January 07, 2011
Blades of Grass
My hands smelll like blueberry bagels.
I can hear a baby crying somewhere close by,
and a trashcan lid,
opening,
closing.
Mid afternoon; the Winter sun is setting,
the crows are on the hunt,
and the wind blows the steam off the top of my coffee.
The barren branches of the elms and birches
hold homes and hearts,
as the patchy sky is whisped with clouds as soft as feathers.
The dry air wraps its spidery arms around me,
drawing me into its deadly web.
Cocooned in hats, sweaters, scarves, and boots,
my warmpth is slowly sucked from my bones.
The clouds collect,
folding like dough,
from feathers into wings,
or a sea turtles shell
swimming high above the earth
with birds and planes alike.
And despondently,
i watch them fade into gossamer,
like blades of grass in the Spring.
I can hear a baby crying somewhere close by,
and a trashcan lid,
opening,
closing.
Mid afternoon; the Winter sun is setting,
the crows are on the hunt,
and the wind blows the steam off the top of my coffee.
The barren branches of the elms and birches
hold homes and hearts,
as the patchy sky is whisped with clouds as soft as feathers.
The dry air wraps its spidery arms around me,
drawing me into its deadly web.
Cocooned in hats, sweaters, scarves, and boots,
my warmpth is slowly sucked from my bones.
The clouds collect,
folding like dough,
from feathers into wings,
or a sea turtles shell
swimming high above the earth
with birds and planes alike.
And despondently,
i watch them fade into gossamer,
like blades of grass in the Spring.
Dark Green Pine Trees
i have an affinity for my scissors.
but i have lost them over the course of many unlikely situations
and now i am searching for them in my desk,
feeling sad, and hopeful,
but knowing in the end, they are gone for good.
but they could never cut
desire away from my mind
nor desolation away from my soul.
so what substance do they hold over
the preponderance of unintelligible concepts
housed on the same shelves of thought
sustained in a hippocampus i call my own.
but i have lost them over the course of many unlikely situations
and now i am searching for them in my desk,
feeling sad, and hopeful,
but knowing in the end, they are gone for good.
but they could never cut
desire away from my mind
nor desolation away from my soul.
so what substance do they hold over
the preponderance of unintelligible concepts
housed on the same shelves of thought
sustained in a hippocampus i call my own.
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