slide again. nothing truly
happened yet. shocking.
its shocking, the rate
so much nothing happens at. now through
the window, two pigeons flash
the full wing-work; the span of what
god gave them; circling, they switch
positions mid-air, my new favourite
band hits its drum and flute
solo : a bubbling like cold
water pipes a shudder of happiness
through me. candle, don't you
burn. clock, don't you tick, i want
another. . .
i've got it
bad. sour & sweet
tooth, great greedy
gut, eyeballs too big
for my life; want that big life
like a well-directed movie; string
of scenes. each more tender
& shining than the last; lets have a brother
& sister race through yellow grass to the brown
river; lets have a hero–brave-
chested, brooding, his truck
veering off the lackluster
path. lets have paris, moscow, romantic
montana, a pardoned
criminal blinking dust
in bald new light, and vastly different
moons preserved
in our windows every night. (some
weighty in syrup like canned
peaches, some slim
little wafer of paper. . .)
… oh between dreams, passions–everything's
ivory. bland & soaped & thudding
& all the happening happened already. so
lets have the crescendo
round this way again; i'm ready as always
to be lifted. let's live the life
made for us by the giants. they'll swing us
over the shoulder–
we'll get carried away.