there isn't always

oh, you're a strange one whispered ashes like funny little stories passed around in front of the fireplace and so watches i the sweet and subtle turns that make the morning matter the way only the morning does the way only the morning could even after the morning after and it's hardly ever frustrations and smirks of frustration or even sometimes the long road out of here.

the long road out of her.

and it's like that a lot of the time its like that pretty often pretty much as often as words come as words do as they drip out and you know they mean something they're covering the story of what you did or what you thought and how much it meant just being there:

i am an index of cravings.

which is probably why it's probably how it happens with those long looks you pass across like billboards visible from the moon the advertising campaigns of groups of lovers and the shadows left by birthing canal afternoons.

i am untangling the grass.

so maybe when it comes to it i smile these goofy grins wide and deep as penetrations into places known only to long lost loves (soon the dribbling of dangles)

and that's what i'm getting at, that's what i'm working on and maybe you'll see maybe you know just what i mean just what it is that makes the smoke more real than the fire;
and i
have always been the fire
the one that burns you if you stand too close or freezes you if you walk too far in all the ways that matter but hardly at all, you know?

so maybe you're strange maybe this whole streetlight season is too odd to trigger senses into action to make the ways we watch more clever make the ways we see more plain and maybe it's only in the watching before the wading that the sea settles down at all.

i am the calm that burns restless.

and you are
the earth full of flowers.

2008-03-01 | 12:56 a.m.
0 comments so far