but the neighbors are at work

june morning spent watching the mountains rest (they know no other way) kept bouncing my thoughts over to the way we interact the way some of us build dramatic palaces of the smallest thoughts and sensations buying one day for the long price of today ruined and washed out wasted away from all the rage that lies inside--

what manner of angel is anger?

june morning spent resting on the back porch watching the morning light slide it's way around the house to find me the cold earth air and cup of coffee one cigarette down and there's me folding over the pages of a book one after another thinking about how i need to do the times crossword need to finish these damn hamilton books need to take a long deep breath and keep on sighing smiling arched eyebrows watching the mystery of days unfold the mystery of what happens now what direction does today lead me in what way do i find lurking up behind me trying to carve out peices of my day trying to trace out in sand the bits of time i reserve for quietness

will quiet come only from the inside?

so june morning makes mention of what breezes may come out today what smiles i might cast out into the line of human sight (the slow straining of eyes to watch)

and bends one long flowing sea of moments spent resting here with the mountains listening to river beds bulging and watching flowers grow -everything in the earth is so alive and creeping; between soilbeds and grass patches-

then june morning makes every day seem like one more day to make it through one more day to watch the way people interact watching the way people save rage and send it out once a day once a month and mostly only at the person who deserves it least (what will it take to make the sun swallow these long deep habits?)

people forget tenderness

like all the laughing they never got around to like all the times they never told someone how much they love them like every time they oversold freedom and so sit in their white chairs undone by the dissatisfaction with life undone by their history of not getting what they want

what makes us think things should come out the way we want them to?

still we jump and fade blow and flow drop drab mornings into the cockpit of discontent wishing on stars buying lottery tickets always dreaming always thinking always promising themselves that unhappiness is not their fault it's the fault of jobs or boyfriends or auto accidents or pets pissing on the floor and how unfair is life how unkind are days how can anyone be expected to last through this?

so people forget tenderness

and lash out like small boy bouncing superbounce balls down driveways and across the street waiting for the neighbors to pass it back...

2007-06-15 | 10:02 p.m.
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