partial to warm milk

slow and short, every other vowel from the lips of strangers means something (a cordial praise of happening, having, hurting). on the sideline, a bent man turned steamy-eyed over a woman leans inward to the ground and sighs (a crime scene of it's own), ends up crashing down crashing down like waves (this life beats our heads in sometimes) and mornings are better than ever.

try sleeping the other way on your bed.

some things work, like mastery of crafts and sciences, blindness, unwavering love of lust and other sensory perceptions without depth -miracles, all of them- and waiting on something special this world spins away (a greeat wind takes us down and rips tears from our eyes) and relaxation comes as surely as waxpaper concubines from bodegas and bar stools.

so i watched him a while, the slim man of subtle build, face in hands, bottle between his toes and i know him know him so well because i've been him and aren't we all haven't we all? merriment belongs to the lost days and we are here here here here here here here (reminding ourselves so often of the little things like blinking, inhales) and standing high and tall is the easiest way to not feel lost but we are we have been will be again, but what would be the point if we always knew where we were going or what we wanted?

harmony. closeness. slightly unhinged and outrageous, we make mercenary sensibilities out of our own failures, out of our own longings: so many of the faults are mine.

this is where it begins but only because it's where it stops. and so forth the other way the other way and more.

good enough.

2004-07-12 | 8:32 p.m.
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