| dear gypsy, |
[Apr. 14th, 2007|09:32 pm] |
she who has bibelots dangling
from her skirt, she who has
discontinued thoughts dwelling
in her heart and dry mouth:
"wake me up when the desert
is filled with the ocean's waters
and when the rivers dry up, call
me." sand storms all around, she
recalls: "sunny days and lazy storms
crowding up the skies. i miss them
blurring up my view. languished was
i by them who brought me to a dusty
truck. i was hitchhiking. rays of the
sun and thunder replaced by sand in
my eye and cars driving past me."
she who has a bandanna
tied to her bleeding arm,
she who has a photograph
stuck to her yellowing teeth
(causing old times to come
flowing out of her lonely mouth):
"i will only die when i have seen
the man turn into woman and when
fountains of butterflies spurt from
this dirt road i am on. i will not die--
i still will be the woman with the dreams
matched with cigarette smoke, the woman
with the gypsy tendencies, i will be."
(cross-posted to poetssociety) |
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| class picture |
[Apr. 12th, 2007|12:11 pm] |
click.
snap.
trying not to
move a very noticeable inch
she smiles.
click.
snap.
the bamboos march
in a very triumphant and
windy ceremony.
click.
snap.
the veil of
oblivion is lifted and cast
into oblivion.
click.
snap.
"all smiles now"
they follow, smiles dancing with
the wind.
click.
snap.
forty grins and
bamboo trees exultant, on the
glossy paper. |
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| also posted at my personal lj |
[Apr. 8th, 2007|09:59 pm] |
sometimes i stare into
the darkness of t h e
night and think: what
if stars loved a n d
were
loved back
?
supernovas would be
born and even for
a little while, just
a little block
of time,
light would shine
our way.
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| I dreamt |
[Apr. 8th, 2007|05:07 pm] |
I wrote today. Nothing special or good.
I dreamt of a dream
one not of a five-
year-old’s unicorns
and fantasies alike.
but of blood and of
rage. of love and of
hate. she ran like
how the blind tried
to touch. she ran
like forever’s end
was chasing her.
like she was run
ning to get the
feeling once again.
the feeling of
sweat sliding down
her red forehead,
with her panting
in a way, so un
lady like. she ran.
it seemed that
the miles she has
taken served as
the ticket for the
man with the Cheshire
Cat smile. with a
smile and a wave
she went in.
( glass door and )
(also posted on my personal lj) |
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