However long it takes to take us

London was so small, and like a cartoon
and time didn't move, on the small clock, or in our faces
We got wet and cold from the skyand warm from us
The spotted glass distorted lights, and made them red and blue wet stars
I felt like I was in space with you, walking on a black sky
Main St. had a tree we couldn't even see the top of
We both looked up though, and the sky sprinkled down on us
The boat floated slow, and we were all that was in it
and the smell came strongly, in the place with which we associate it
I thought I had lost you in the huge bright store, and it was late at night
Everything had ears or bills and price tags and smells
and you were looking for something to be a gift and i thought i had lost you
And we escaped paying, and drove past the gate
And I didn't ever mention it, and maybe didn't even think it
but that night was worth the pass
And that night was worth 5 years of waiting
and you were worth 17
and however long it takes to take us

the Chalice of D.C.

This girl walked by me at work, and a wave of her perfume hit me and brought back a vivid memory of a pub in Washington D.C. More specifically, the smell made me think instantly of these cold tin cups we were drinking out of, which gave the soda held within, an odd, floral taste (I didn't understand at the time, nor do I now, how a metal cup, or chalice, more like, could produce a flower-like tinge). I was just langourously walking back to my desk, after washing my hands for the third time since arriving at work (it's a time consumption method thing) and her passing me, with whatever perfume she was wearing (one, I'll add, that I surely haven't smelled in at LEAST 9 years, because I'm confident that, had I smelled it before, I'd have made the same olfactory based connection) singularly triggered me to want, to reach for something. Typically, nothing in this office send off any bells in any part of me. In fact, the loudest symbolic noise I experience while here is usually a silent scream to be out of here. How refreshing it was, then, to be knocked out of my usual stupor of repetition. I lost the scent now. And by that, I mean the memory of what it smelled like. It was that kind of thing where your mind has an experience on its own, and pretty much leaves you out it. You're just a spectator, and once it's gone, it's gone. I didn't have a part in the nostalgic connection, it happened without my assistence or acceptance, and it's left me in a similar fashion. It did, however, pull me to click Start > All Programs > Accessories > Notepad, and type these words.

Oh yeah.......forgot

Yeah, these are also poems I wrote while I was away from this place. I might modify a few as i read through, cause you know:



a cuckold's dream


let his brow fall, and settle over his eyes
let his mouth bend and weave into a scowl
let him sit still, making fists and shaking
or let him go out, to make pretend
and to forget
or try to

let his mind wander, and his laughter shiver
let his eyes wither; and with her let him ponder
let him make suggestions and spit out complaints
while her arm snakes around his waist
and her fingers grip
and her lips slip wet kisses

let her pasty face in, to nuzzle through
let her reflexiveness dominate sin
let out fictional feinting; sound a horn
and all the while
let affectations sigh out
and settle in

let a lingering bounce bounce a jaunty rhythm
let a stifling tap overwhelm a beat
let a settled brow release; a bent, beaten mouth breath
but all with suggestions, and a face turned away
but kept along
and held within

in a casual trot, there's a stomp that screams
in a conclusive embrace, an uncertain smudge leaps
through a series of fucks, much of nothing is changed
but the conscious return of a cuckold's old dream


_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=

dance, dance

festivity flows around furtive glances
surreptitious fellness follows flimsy bedfellows
the party's crescendos
blasts of color - oranges of fire and blues of ice
explosions of music - horns, yelps and sloppy percussion
and clandestine love, lingering loud

brims are lowered over eyes, straws and toothpicks chomped to pieces
eyes dart 'round the room like jets at war
smoke covers it all; makes their suspicion a show
a cloudy setting for murky thinking

trust is with elves and unicorns here
it's a joke
laughter here would be a foreign tongue
a babble - misunderstood - mispronounced

when the punch is passed around
the men drink with volition
pulsing throats and sticky chins - as if trying to prove something by it
and the cups - imploded - disappearing in fists
a capper to the display

the afro-cuban noise blare drowns out the thoughts that circle the place
a closed in, stifling, uncomfortable place
with shut in thoughts

when the dancing starts, the music stops
so does the part
new explosions repalce the congas. the trumpets
greasy explosions, muffled explosions
the explosions of human fists, human knees
the yelps turn to screams
and ripping dresses, snapping heels

a high school dance turned and twisted
like balloons in wind
oranges of fire
and blues of ice

Here I am, rock me like a doo-da-dee-doo

I'm going to start making myself write a poem every day. 
that's WRITE, i said everysingleday. 
they might be awful (like th-mphh mm hmm hmm hmm) or they might be decent. 
or brilliant.  regardless, they'll be here.  every day.  goodbye.


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O white paper dove
Don't smudge yourself on the ink or in the mud
O sheet-white sand-paper dove
Don't crush yourself under stapler or love



Across the way is a noise
That travels in waver and squalor
It hits me like water torture
Repeating like a week repeats
A month repeats



O crow
Don't tear yourself from it
O glistening black crow
Don't stop for me



Instead of sleep every night
I get 8 hours of ticks and
Nervous tocks
And end it with a ringing clock that can't be answered
Or ended



O brilliant blue
Don't fade out for the light
O bastard bright blue
Don't let the dark eat it's way out again