Friday, August 14, 2009

A hundred and five degrees in the shade

It's a hundred and five degrees in the shade
and I am at work questioning the rarity
of the metric size 9.

Frozen dinner promised a brownie
but delivered only brown goo with
four misplaced green bean pieces at the bottom.

I ate one.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Heat

"Fever broke,"
pronounced the forest
from beyond concrete
and brick work
glass juxtaposed
to plastic.

The beads
trembling
over
the sparse hair
betwixt
the space
beneath
an eyebrow.

Paw at
it, Cacophony
of Silence. You are
unlike sensible
decisions: a process
that will not reap
proper
results.


O’ again,
what has been done
without consequence?

(The hue of the dress
worn at the first dance
of your young
adulthood.
It was nice,
wasn’t it?)


The Revenant, now
out the garden,
sways a rhythm
of a beat
unnoticed.

A Who
that goes
there in
absence
of friendship,

bumping
along
to the unsaid,
things
Not-Done.

Consider this
a resignation,
A promise broke
in lieu of something
that was once
never again.

An
obsession
acknowledges happiness
until the sweat drips
in the folded crease
of a map unfolded.

The math-inky (?) motion
of the “could” tran
scribed to the “did.”

Cartography,
reminiscent of the borders
depicted, makes for
lousy acquaintance
when met
months after
the expedition....


I guess what
is trying to
be said
is

"Lover, I’m sorry,
I remain unchanged,
floundering
forever.



Rebuttal:

Well it gets
less poetic
as the night drips
on its axis,
distinct in
that one has
gone back on
a promise.

Think architecture,
a hoop of laughter
beneath a belly
churning doubt.
The taller the
building, the
demand for
masonry
melts.

"Atop, a leap
sirens confusedly,"
beckons the Presence
or results,
after all,

you are
a catch,
don’t sell
yourself
yet.

(Sweat
befalls the Specter whose
jaunts
up north seem circumspect.
Toppled
surroundings deemed
comfortable
relinquish time traveled.)


Re
re
dundant.
We're aware
of the roads
traveled.
May we develop
our own course,

sweet pea?

And if I lied,
would savoring
the aftermath,
the nothing,
drip as sweet
beneath con
crete

cisterns
reduce to
non-things?