Saturday, May 28, 2011

Tuesday, May 24, 2011



All heft and cloud
capped white souls
froth sky blue 

Riddled (new version of "Anyway"



I wish to die a slow death
riddled with something
incurable -

lose my mother tongue
the ability to smell fries and vinegar
or new rain on the fur of spring violets.

My cat curled, pushed
against the weak flesh of my belly
her purr a movement of fur

keeping time to the metronome
of the bedside clock,
my breath a rattled score

sung to the earthworm turn of seasons

Postcard From Here

Twenty-six days
of stories and ghosts
scribbled caricatures
sketches and silhouettes
shadows inked over cobbles

in old Montmartre a decent man
sells word art behind a beat up desk
a curl of smoke
singes the rafters grey
he calls me kind

the gristle of his beard 
mutters it
as twice he kisses me