pale
swallows flight
throat down if
light
breaking tongue
lifts lip there
rising
ambitious(tion) held
chins ‘speptic was
dawn
twists turn(s)
back away testicles
harry k stammer
Friday, December 01, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
muse
I'm not sure whether I have a muse or not, the idea has always seemed a bit hokey to me.
If I did have one I imagine she would have a silver disc face framed by a dark shawl. Her eyes are misty green hollows, soft with having seen too much and dreamt too long. She has slender pointed nails and a slipper lip (rounded and slightly fuzzy).
She dwells in a forest among the roots of a Boab tree and she gathers wild flowers and lives on nuts and berries. Her hair is long, soft, wild, and white. She is part dryad.
She is very vague and communicates in half formed words and snatches of dreams.
Most of the time she seems very far away, but sometimes she is very clear and forceful.
Sometimes she has the voice of the wind sighing through the leaves. Sometimes she has the voice of branches snapping and crackling in flames.
If I did have one I imagine she would have a silver disc face framed by a dark shawl. Her eyes are misty green hollows, soft with having seen too much and dreamt too long. She has slender pointed nails and a slipper lip (rounded and slightly fuzzy).
She dwells in a forest among the roots of a Boab tree and she gathers wild flowers and lives on nuts and berries. Her hair is long, soft, wild, and white. She is part dryad.
She is very vague and communicates in half formed words and snatches of dreams.
Most of the time she seems very far away, but sometimes she is very clear and forceful.
Sometimes she has the voice of the wind sighing through the leaves. Sometimes she has the voice of branches snapping and crackling in flames.
To Oaro M
Heading north by north east
into the nor'west,
all my ghosts
horde behind me.
The dusk is pink dust
rolled over the ocean,
the sun is a torch flame
licking the hill crest.
Everything seems serene
in the hot wind huff
along the shoreline,
but the black rainbow
bleeding down from the clouds
cannot be ignored.
My dead mother's voice whispers
from the brown plastic bowl,
the blue and white tin bread bin,
every fibre of carpet and curtain,
every glisten of paua
and curve of driftwood
in our old batch on the coast.
The moon peeps a blind white eye
through a chinked lid of sky -
and like memory
refuses to die.
into the nor'west,
all my ghosts
horde behind me.
The dusk is pink dust
rolled over the ocean,
the sun is a torch flame
licking the hill crest.
Everything seems serene
in the hot wind huff
along the shoreline,
but the black rainbow
bleeding down from the clouds
cannot be ignored.
My dead mother's voice whispers
from the brown plastic bowl,
the blue and white tin bread bin,
every fibre of carpet and curtain,
every glisten of paua
and curve of driftwood
in our old batch on the coast.
The moon peeps a blind white eye
through a chinked lid of sky -
and like memory
refuses to die.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
I'm late -- can I still play Muse?
The Muse
4:00 a.m.
choose -- green
lime or shamrock?
trite trite trite
yellow --
yellow --
the muse works in mysterious ways
brrrinnng brrrinng brrrinnng click
SPEAK! !beep! _____________
_______________________. click
red --
4:00 a.m.
choose -- green
lime or shamrock?
paper moneyyellow -- quick!
in a shoebox
sunlight on
polished oak
daffodils
trite trite trite
yellow --
that dead fox stole
on the woman's shoulders
in the Topper movie
wait
wasn't that in black&white?
yellow --
the fox stole the egg
with its yellow yolk
the muse works in mysterious ways
brrrinnng brrrinng brrrinnng click
SPEAK! !beep! _____________
_______________________. click
red --
the naked
human heart
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Second Part to the December Poetry Challenge
Everyone may participate in this part even though the majority of the bloggers here did not want to show us theirs. We are going to write an AUBADE for the second part of this challenge. Please pick one of the muses below and you as the observer, write an AUBADE between the muse and the mused. Stop by the WIKIPEDIA page to find out what an AUBADE is.
Deadline is December 5th.
The winner will receive this set of greeting cards -- ho ho ho.
Deadline is December 5th.
The winner will receive this set of greeting cards -- ho ho ho.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
my muse - december challenge -
My muse is stinky and awfully cute. Not too stinky that you can not tickle her. She doesn’t have a name, or it keeps changing. Once she was a guy sitting on a bench at the roller rink. I did not think she was very sexy that time. My muse is very sexy most the time. Either she is sexy or incredibly something else. But if it’s not sexy, then it must be incredible.
I try to ignore her sometimes, because she gets on my nerves and has a propensity to “keep me in check” which is bullshit. I mean, who (exactly) died and made her a muse?
I used to be more inclined towards her bits and pieces, but lately she has bored me. I have been bored with my muse for awhile. Sometimes she will hide away and then eventually come out, usually from a closet, with some weird messed up shit and then eventually, after scourging me properly, for no apparent reason, seeks short term reconciliation, at least long enough to build my trust and let me kick the shit out of her - she'll say - "that's bullshit you stupid bitch!" is the same as a kicking if you scream it loud enough
My muse likes things just so and is kind of like a fairy. She is bigger than a fairy, but that just might be illusion. I am never sure of such things. My muse is stupid, because she is caught up in ideals and thus is pleasured by mechanics of service. The physical favors of machines. The printing of money and the waking of dead things sometimes.
In the winter, she is really annoying. In the winter her one-tracked mind really kicks in. I am led to believe that she truly believes that what she gives to me is for my benefit, but I tend to assert that it is in fact for her benefit. “Shall I argue or be scourged?” I asked one day as I pled. She has never responded. It must be nice.
I try to ignore her sometimes, because she gets on my nerves and has a propensity to “keep me in check” which is bullshit. I mean, who (exactly) died and made her a muse?
I used to be more inclined towards her bits and pieces, but lately she has bored me. I have been bored with my muse for awhile. Sometimes she will hide away and then eventually come out, usually from a closet, with some weird messed up shit and then eventually, after scourging me properly, for no apparent reason, seeks short term reconciliation, at least long enough to build my trust and let me kick the shit out of her - she'll say - "that's bullshit you stupid bitch!" is the same as a kicking if you scream it loud enough
My muse likes things just so and is kind of like a fairy. She is bigger than a fairy, but that just might be illusion. I am never sure of such things. My muse is stupid, because she is caught up in ideals and thus is pleasured by mechanics of service. The physical favors of machines. The printing of money and the waking of dead things sometimes.
In the winter, she is really annoying. In the winter her one-tracked mind really kicks in. I am led to believe that she truly believes that what she gives to me is for my benefit, but I tend to assert that it is in fact for her benefit. “Shall I argue or be scourged?” I asked one day as I pled. She has never responded. It must be nice.
dear
amidst delicious shadows gone outward after you whisp'ring body the moon joined through appearance crossing you daydreamed haply voice of monday
regards distances swaying together sweeping stranger two-syllabled let's lay each like wanting to light between november and december that desire drunk down we'll remember pleasing given having joy delighted fortune so telling the features flying magnetic silhouettes into excitement widening shaking commotion recombined
fluid upon fluid waves conspire sweet beauty rode nude prescription wildly over tomorrow evening
Saturday, November 25, 2006
My Muse --December Poetry Challenge (Pris)
My Muse is Baylus. He first appeared when I was four. Since I was an only child, he walked into my life to become my friend. Even though he was a boy muse, he tolerated my mud pies, treasured my air tea, and played joyfully with my paperdolls. When summer arrived, he wandered with me to the edge of the woods behind our house, held my hand, and whispered stories about Indians and boogiemen who ate little girls who didn't have muses to protect them.
Mother, a first grade teacher with muses of her own, later told me she was advised by the small town nose-pokers that imaginary playmates were a sign of mental illness. She was to ignore Baylus, to tell me that what glowed only in my inner eyes was not real. Fortunately, she didn't listen. She held the back door open long enough for Baylus to come through with me if I told her he was lagging and set a place at the table for him if I said he was hungry.
Through Baylus, I saw stories rise out of the woods, fall from the sky on angel wings, swim in the mudpuddles after a hard rain. As I grew older, Baylus no longer followed me around, but he has never left. I still hear him on the edge of a cello note and see him in a tear's reflection. He has never wavered in his determination to remind me to listen with a child's ears and see with a child's eyes, then have the courage to write it.
Mother, a first grade teacher with muses of her own, later told me she was advised by the small town nose-pokers that imaginary playmates were a sign of mental illness. She was to ignore Baylus, to tell me that what glowed only in my inner eyes was not real. Fortunately, she didn't listen. She held the back door open long enough for Baylus to come through with me if I told her he was lagging and set a place at the table for him if I said he was hungry.
Through Baylus, I saw stories rise out of the woods, fall from the sky on angel wings, swim in the mudpuddles after a hard rain. As I grew older, Baylus no longer followed me around, but he has never left. I still hear him on the edge of a cello note and see him in a tear's reflection. He has never wavered in his determination to remind me to listen with a child's ears and see with a child's eyes, then have the courage to write it.
My Muse - for December Challenge
My Muse doesn't show her face and I'm only referring to her as "her" because it's the common custom. When I go walking in the evening and I hear the wind high in the tree leaves, when I get home on a mild evening (like tonight) and I see a hazy crescent moon through the tree branches, when I'm lying awake at night and the sounds of the night streets are whispering through the window, when I hear an owl fluting in the pine trees of the cemetery or when I hear the long fading horn of a freight train from the tracks a mile away at some nameless hour before dawn, when I'm standing by the edge of a frozen lake in the pit of winter on the longest night of the year and the sky is clear and cold and the stars are sharp and bright and the air is so cold it's a million tiny mouths biting all over, at those times and many others like them I can hear the voice of my muse.
My Muse (or muse -- she's not one to stand on ceremony) sometimes comes and finds me and starts jabbing me in the ribs subtly. After several days of increasing irritable mood I begin to realize I need to write something. After another three or four days of this I can start writing. I've learned over the years to endure long dry periods alternated with periods of frenzied constant writing. It's one fanatical biorhythm we've worked out together.
Sometimes I have to go seeking after the muse. Sometimes I can find her if I look at the last evening light above the treetops, or if I listen to the crows calling at earliest morning light. Sometimes I can find her if I sit up late reading Lorca or Transtromer or Rexroth or Yosano Akiko or Miroslav Holub or Tom McGrath or Sharon Doubiago or Joy Harjo or Tu Fu or Sappho.
However one of the most reliable ways to find her is to go walking, slowly, the pace of slow ocean waves. This isn't easy living in the center of a huge land mass a couple of thousand miles from the ocean, though the lakes here have enough of a tidal rhythm (if on a smaller scale) to somewhat echo the ocean sound. Water helps but is not essential -- if I just walk at the slow pace, I begin to get the inkling of the muse, the slow walking rhythm which is the basic ground rhythm in most of my poems, I start feeling the tidal pull of the earth and the poems start to float to the surface, and if I'm paying attention I'll start to write.
The muse (or Muse, according to the common custom), or whatever else she cares to be called, has never told me her name.
My Muse (or muse -- she's not one to stand on ceremony) sometimes comes and finds me and starts jabbing me in the ribs subtly. After several days of increasing irritable mood I begin to realize I need to write something. After another three or four days of this I can start writing. I've learned over the years to endure long dry periods alternated with periods of frenzied constant writing. It's one fanatical biorhythm we've worked out together.
Sometimes I have to go seeking after the muse. Sometimes I can find her if I look at the last evening light above the treetops, or if I listen to the crows calling at earliest morning light. Sometimes I can find her if I sit up late reading Lorca or Transtromer or Rexroth or Yosano Akiko or Miroslav Holub or Tom McGrath or Sharon Doubiago or Joy Harjo or Tu Fu or Sappho.
However one of the most reliable ways to find her is to go walking, slowly, the pace of slow ocean waves. This isn't easy living in the center of a huge land mass a couple of thousand miles from the ocean, though the lakes here have enough of a tidal rhythm (if on a smaller scale) to somewhat echo the ocean sound. Water helps but is not essential -- if I just walk at the slow pace, I begin to get the inkling of the muse, the slow walking rhythm which is the basic ground rhythm in most of my poems, I start feeling the tidal pull of the earth and the poems start to float to the surface, and if I'm paying attention I'll start to write.
The muse (or Muse, according to the common custom), or whatever else she cares to be called, has never told me her name.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Seychelles - The Decmeber Challenge continues
She asked me to play Bolero as I write this. Yes, like Diego mentioned previously in a poem there is eroticism in the sound of the flutes and the drums in the background resembles the sound of the poems born in a mortar as I crush garlic into sea salt and rub it into Thanksgiving's dinner. The sea, and an island off Africa, there is where she came from hence her name Seychelles and unlike Diego’s Muse mine is the color of Mozambique when she is fired up. She has no wings like Laurel’s for she leaves those for the real angels gathered in Dulce’s house and she definitely is not a Devil like Derek’s muse. She has traveled from the tip of Africa up to the coast and once landed in the eyelids of a half Moor and half Jew woman who lived off the coast of Spain on one of the Canary Islands. She prefers to inspire bastards and thieves who later conquer greatness. Yes she asked me to play Bolero and she is behind me now marching, twirling a baton too close to my head trying to awaken the past.
More after I meet the rest of the Muses.
More after I meet the rest of the Muses.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
cattle-prod or, why not enter a december poetry challenge?
my muse tells me that i can live the life of at least one and a half normal people. he tells me this not in spoken words, but in a series of unconscious gestures. he mocks the way animals communicate. i can never be certain of his intentions, or whether what he says is intended as communication. he eschews absolutes. one day i nearly caught him in a mirror. he looked disturbingly like me. or perhaps i imagined this. the possibility i was simply projecting an image has occurred to us both. creating. this is what my muse wants. to trick me into an act of creation; to disturb the peace. i hate him. i gender my muse, make him a man because men are easier to hate. but on half-asleep afternoons he nearly tells me about his femininity. he makes me wear high-heels when no-one is around. he wants to have my baby. he promises the extra half-life i earn in his service will be of depth, not length. he lords both words and experience over me. he cries if i ignore even one performance. my muse is a devil.
December Poetry Challenge: Hi, my name is _________
Her Name is Ascending
My muse is winged. At first, I mistook her for an angel. She hovered above my bed when I was five. She told me my grandmother died. She told me that I was alive; she told me the dark was nothing to be afraid of; she told me that the dark was my friend. My muse reminds me to live when I forget or try to give up. My muse stops me in the middle of street and shows me a flock of pigeons swirling like fish. She shows me the shadow of the peregrine as it soars through the shadow of me. My muse tells me I can fly like that. My muse tells me I was born with wings. My muse insists I listen to the great horned owl asking the night for love before I go to bed. My muse forms my hand into the cup that scoops up the stunned mourning dove from the sidewalk and places it among the impatiens. My muse reminds me of the pulse in my throat fluttering like a moth; my muse reminds me how thin the skin of my wrist is. When I look into the mirror, I see my muse rolling over and through me, wave after grey wave. When I stand still in autum, I feel her pulling me, lifting my arms to the wind, promising that I am hollow-boned, that I have a soul, that I will rise. Up, she whispers. Up.
My muse is winged. At first, I mistook her for an angel. She hovered above my bed when I was five. She told me my grandmother died. She told me that I was alive; she told me the dark was nothing to be afraid of; she told me that the dark was my friend. My muse reminds me to live when I forget or try to give up. My muse stops me in the middle of street and shows me a flock of pigeons swirling like fish. She shows me the shadow of the peregrine as it soars through the shadow of me. My muse tells me I can fly like that. My muse tells me I was born with wings. My muse insists I listen to the great horned owl asking the night for love before I go to bed. My muse forms my hand into the cup that scoops up the stunned mourning dove from the sidewalk and places it among the impatiens. My muse reminds me of the pulse in my throat fluttering like a moth; my muse reminds me how thin the skin of my wrist is. When I look into the mirror, I see my muse rolling over and through me, wave after grey wave. When I stand still in autum, I feel her pulling me, lifting my arms to the wind, promising that I am hollow-boned, that I have a soul, that I will rise. Up, she whispers. Up.
DQ's Muse - December Submission
My Muse has no name. At least not known to me. I can tell you little about her. I have no idea where she goes when she’s not with me, I don’t know if there are other writers or artists on her rounds, I don’t know where she came from or why she visits me.
Here is what I know about her. She is a naked woman with long dark green hair, green eyes, and light green skin. Sometimes she walks around my home while I write, sometimes she stands behind my desk, other times she sits on my bed. She wears three Hibiscus flowers on her hair, usually pink, sometimes yelow. She drops subtle whispers here and there, words, sentences, titles, ideas. Rarely anything complete from start to finish. I have noticed that there are some words she’s drawn to. “Amber” and “Ecstasy” were two of the first ones I came across after reviewing old poems we wrote.
She often speaks of the moon. She's moody. She is not patient. She's bitchy most of the time. She is telling me to write this. She has asked me to capitalized the word “You” on occasion, saying that “You” should be capitalized the same as “I”. Who knows, maybe she’s right.
At first, I would only hear her voice when I sat at my writing desk. Years later, I saw her for the first time. It was a brief moment. I sat at my desk after a long sabbatical from poetry, and there she was, standing next to me holding out a pen. She whispered “Its time to write”, she then moved behind me and guided me through several poems by whispering words in my ear. From the brief look I got of her, she looked like this.
We’ve developed a working relationship through out the years. We now collaborate more. She has posed for me on occasion, as with this CD cover (on which she had to wear one of my old motorcycle vests for the band to avoid a “Parental Warning” label).
She has made only one request from me. I must mention her every time I raise a glass and toast to something. So, if You and I ever sit together and have a glass of wine, You will say “Cheers”, and I will say “To the Muse, to the moon, and to this moment”.
Here is what I know about her. She is a naked woman with long dark green hair, green eyes, and light green skin. Sometimes she walks around my home while I write, sometimes she stands behind my desk, other times she sits on my bed. She wears three Hibiscus flowers on her hair, usually pink, sometimes yelow. She drops subtle whispers here and there, words, sentences, titles, ideas. Rarely anything complete from start to finish. I have noticed that there are some words she’s drawn to. “Amber” and “Ecstasy” were two of the first ones I came across after reviewing old poems we wrote.
She often speaks of the moon. She's moody. She is not patient. She's bitchy most of the time. She is telling me to write this. She has asked me to capitalized the word “You” on occasion, saying that “You” should be capitalized the same as “I”. Who knows, maybe she’s right.
At first, I would only hear her voice when I sat at my writing desk. Years later, I saw her for the first time. It was a brief moment. I sat at my desk after a long sabbatical from poetry, and there she was, standing next to me holding out a pen. She whispered “Its time to write”, she then moved behind me and guided me through several poems by whispering words in my ear. From the brief look I got of her, she looked like this.
We’ve developed a working relationship through out the years. We now collaborate more. She has posed for me on occasion, as with this CD cover (on which she had to wear one of my old motorcycle vests for the band to avoid a “Parental Warning” label).
She has made only one request from me. I must mention her every time I raise a glass and toast to something. So, if You and I ever sit together and have a glass of wine, You will say “Cheers”, and I will say “To the Muse, to the moon, and to this moment”.
The December Poetry Challenge - PART 1 of 2
Seychelles
I want to be introduced to your Muse. Seychelles has been bothering me since yesterday to be introduced to you. She stood on top of the rim of the bear claw white bathtub as I cleaned the grout of the white sink. She sat in the back seat of the black Cherokee on my way to work. "Tell them where I came from" she said. I thought about it and let her simmer a while as I took out the garbage, put another load of laundry to wash, as I sat down and broke rosemary and olive oil bread with my children as I threw bits of chicken to the dog sitting at attention for a bit of morsel as I sat in the computer and uploaded audio as I built another web page. So anyway I will be happy to show you mine if you show me yours.
This is the first part of the December Poetry Challenge.
Tell me about your Muse. Please place your story on a new thread. Please make sure to state on the title that this is a submission to the poetry challenge. Once I have been introduced to at least 10 Muses, I will post the second part of the challenge.
I want to be introduced to your Muse. Seychelles has been bothering me since yesterday to be introduced to you. She stood on top of the rim of the bear claw white bathtub as I cleaned the grout of the white sink. She sat in the back seat of the black Cherokee on my way to work. "Tell them where I came from" she said. I thought about it and let her simmer a while as I took out the garbage, put another load of laundry to wash, as I sat down and broke rosemary and olive oil bread with my children as I threw bits of chicken to the dog sitting at attention for a bit of morsel as I sat in the computer and uploaded audio as I built another web page. So anyway I will be happy to show you mine if you show me yours.
This is the first part of the December Poetry Challenge.
Tell me about your Muse. Please place your story on a new thread. Please make sure to state on the title that this is a submission to the poetry challenge. Once I have been introduced to at least 10 Muses, I will post the second part of the challenge.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Call for Submissions Loch Raven Review Winter Issue
Hi everyone
The deadline to submit to the Winter 2006 issue of Loch Raven Review is Thursday, November 30. The issue will post in December so you won't have to wait long to know if your work is accepted. (Reading period is November 15 - December 15.)
Check out our submissions policy http://www.lochravenreview.net/guidelines.html
Good luck! We hope to see submissions from some of you.
Best regards
Christopher T. George and Jim Doss
Editors, Loch Raven Review
Loch Raven Review
The deadline to submit to the Winter 2006 issue of Loch Raven Review is Thursday, November 30. The issue will post in December so you won't have to wait long to know if your work is accepted. (Reading period is November 15 - December 15.)
Check out our submissions policy http://www.lochravenreview.net/guidelines.html
Good luck! We hope to see submissions from some of you.
Best regards
Christopher T. George and Jim Doss
Editors, Loch Raven Review
Loch Raven Review
Monday, November 20, 2006
Talking her down
The province of motion
is a pitiful act. Divest
the volume, skip the intro,
make maps out of your hellos.
Outtake your obeisance!
You have these miraculous
feathers in your throat.
You would like me to coax her
if soot were the probable cause.
Scope the pond for mind-over-leaf.
Mortician says: it will be a willful
display, for the skin is liver-marked.
Spotted among the drips, the crowless feet.
Bank left over the city. There's a stadium.
There you are dressed in pink, a lightning
robbed of its equation, foreground.
I have nonchalance as cover-up, no margin
for error, a felony in the plush peach
sans lips as my only ripe offering.
Beyond the vocal register, it is my sun
the one that rolls its Rs and expects
me to be frightened lifts its dress.
A tar roof, utterly sky. Constellatory.
She is sister, the younger, waif one.
The megaphone is shofar dipped in leg wax.
Et lux begins a descent, you can make it.
The net counts on her. Applause is
the dry laundry of rush hour.
is a pitiful act. Divest
the volume, skip the intro,
make maps out of your hellos.
Outtake your obeisance!
You have these miraculous
feathers in your throat.
You would like me to coax her
if soot were the probable cause.
Scope the pond for mind-over-leaf.
Mortician says: it will be a willful
display, for the skin is liver-marked.
Spotted among the drips, the crowless feet.
Bank left over the city. There's a stadium.
There you are dressed in pink, a lightning
robbed of its equation, foreground.
I have nonchalance as cover-up, no margin
for error, a felony in the plush peach
sans lips as my only ripe offering.
Beyond the vocal register, it is my sun
the one that rolls its Rs and expects
me to be frightened lifts its dress.
A tar roof, utterly sky. Constellatory.
She is sister, the younger, waif one.
The megaphone is shofar dipped in leg wax.
Et lux begins a descent, you can make it.
The net counts on her. Applause is
the dry laundry of rush hour.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Hôtel Nouvel
I think it’s nice now
just never felt that the lobby could hold
You sleeping and me sleeping
Still in our chairs this much later
After the gondola light of downtown pullses
into the glass doors.
At ten o’clock. At 2 o’clock
The Porters’ carts
Brush by now and some are
Neatly arranged by the elevator
(burnished glow in the elevator
door,tallow,You going over/upsetting a lamp
)
I’m trying
I say now it’s no crisis
But the out-of-town couple ready to check in
for the day
They’re looking rather defiant. Happy
you say
Everything is set
Give me that key junior
He has his hand on her neck.
She’s not backing into his knee, exactly.
Not backing.
Though we couldn’t tell, very well,
from this sleepy angle,
whether they were walking,
Or waltzing
But 20 stories above
It’s Less confused
The clean sheets and the hot water
The good view
not a concern of ethics
Not many colors;sculpting
Reds and bronzes
Same in the tapestries on the walls
And on the walls
Which are just
a few feet away
just never felt that the lobby could hold
You sleeping and me sleeping
Still in our chairs this much later
After the gondola light of downtown pullses
into the glass doors.
At ten o’clock. At 2 o’clock
The Porters’ carts
Brush by now and some are
Neatly arranged by the elevator
(burnished glow in the elevator
door,tallow,You going over/upsetting a lamp
)
I’m trying
I say now it’s no crisis
But the out-of-town couple ready to check in
for the day
They’re looking rather defiant. Happy
you say
Everything is set
Give me that key junior
He has his hand on her neck.
She’s not backing into his knee, exactly.
Not backing.
Though we couldn’t tell, very well,
from this sleepy angle,
whether they were walking,
Or waltzing
But 20 stories above
It’s Less confused
The clean sheets and the hot water
The good view
not a concern of ethics
Not many colors;sculpting
Reds and bronzes
Same in the tapestries on the walls
And on the walls
Which are just
a few feet away
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