Friday, April 10, 2009

when we were 16

when inspiration hits like a impatient passenger, on a sunday bus
i take him to place for us
i take him up and down this tiny town
to places far beknownst from you
i take him to my own corners of this non-Timbuktu
we sit a while and ponder things
make love on the swings
i pretend he is you, with your sandy eyes and honest mouth
hands that make me think of trees

i am not really here, you know

i am wherever you decide to go


inhale inhale inhale
exhale
hail
on the green tin roof like my marbles in grade two
like my unfinished sentences to those who didnt hear the first
they are insistent important truth
who am i to say what i may and may not do
?

can i tempt you with a breast
a hidden meaning in my vest?
may you come out tonight to that bar
and dance and kiss and run to places far far far
far so far from what may lie at the end of 5 years and what we may find
amongst responsibilities written on discarded school standard lined paper.
would it all dissolve like smoke and lights and the nighttime haunts
if lit
with this lighter?


a hand sliding through clean, dark hair in the afternoon
fingers placed in summer grass
clasped around condensation on a beer glass
___________fast breathing, braced white bedding and sheets
sweat salty from roaming these streets
endless on endless days walking in my blistered feet
maybe if i lost this mile we could end up someplace
loud and ugly
and there we could sit and fall a time
pumping destruction and filth
into ourselves






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