Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Lakey Comess

The date is vital

                                                to the process, keeping a journal, since you asked.
Enough about meme.  All you meant to convey is me, me or même. 

Let's talk about you, making an effort.  Rise and shine to strange bird song in mid-winter. 
You are warmer, if not warm.  The date is departure, conclusively starting over. 

Collection of rubbish should be top of the agenda, on the job gossip amongst postmen. 
Fuel consumption somewhere near pathological, pardon my footprint.

Once upon a time were a number of highly trained ears.  It takes years to sift through the debris. 

There's a solitary and singularly ugly high-heeled shoe (one of a pair) near the path. 
Have you noticed what must be a rather large woman, limping?

I don't know how to begin to answer that question in a text.  A phone call will have to suffice. 
Face to face. Date, time, place.  Fine, if you are into pool parties.  It doesn't stop raining. 

Did you know the city is built on marshlands?
One misses the sound of a voice.


Nearly new

                        marriages fray at the edges
when visitors are more interesting than spouses. 

The year ended with introductions to a whole untapped universe,
more exotic fish in the sea than ever came out of it, uncommonly mild temperatures,
rivers in spate, precipitate bird song.

Cast wool, complete first complex rows, toss dice on six houses.


Ash flowers

                        obscure stone strewn railway receding to vanishing point. 
Forensic display links one beginning to In the Beginning. 

We strive to preserve personal possessions,
gold teeth, hair, tired wire-rimmed spectacles. 

How thin can you stretch synchronous destruction before it succumbs? 

I think (in your words, your mind's eye) binds nihilism with threads,
tightening ribbons of bodice, fastening Lilith's indiscreet gossamer gown. 

What instrument deciphers geodes at distance? 
How do we read residue of burnt offering?



Removal strategies vibrate pensively,
poke at past,
            sheared close, our seasons rough,
desolation salvaged
            from rich vaporous revolution. 

Coffee seems thinner today,
            factual lines waver, cut onto canvas.

You appear off-center, visibly stirred,
speaking behind a screen of green foliage. 

Lost countenance escapes and re-appears,
often enough to serve my self, not yours. 

Cast a key before entering endurance of the same old question.

Are you with me?


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