Not Yet

sleep, eat, sit on my hands stand on my head.

most lives lack a plot point, no narrator necessary, give the extras the day off and call off the camera man.

We carve out a canyon called community, filled with dead eyes and slick hair, slow walks with machine gun stutters, never naming the dogs of her childhood, or learning the schedule of the local buses. She comes and goes like a holiday.

On a beach by the mountains, we point our ship to the edges of the map, looking for land, but knowing that we could fall off the face of the earth.

feel alone in a room full of people, non fiction, unaware, inspired, non-plused

sweet and naïve fiction, history and philosophy

closer to those already underground, dry, wet or French.

the clouds fill like balloons as children bark at flying carpets and another day is just that; another day

not even the Dutch could draw such beautiful hill, so I bury my head in the cruelty of poetry and sleep in the giant bed all alone.

Our white eyes melt and fade into our heads, cracked like a fertilized egg spilling yellow and blood, splashed to blur from a rain drop.

I'd like sail to the capital of Tunisia, and count the stars that float like apples to the sea, but silently I sit in a dull and crowded city, buzzing with the fear of anomaly, covered with fancy ladies in waiting and dead dogs barking at flying carpets.

We'd like to make make love and march our armies to the beaches of Burma, but were rooted in the mud on the streets of myth, fooled in Cairo, Illinois struck out and stuck with a sly looks on our faces, knowing were no better than the bums that line the alleys of hell.

she ignores the artificial and with sensitive ears she hears me calling her home and like a silent film she walks out of the scene, never announcing wear she's off to next just smiling and winking a goodbye meant for me or no one special

I hold the tickets to take us out of town but I guess I'll be going alone, it always seems to go this way.