(no subject)
rain comes from almost nowhere,
or from the lingering ghosts
of moisture passing through the night
visible by the streetlights:
now buoyed in the haze as
i step lightly, cigarette at lips,
the book put down,
house behind me. i stare out
and see house-lights run thru by
tall grasses; no sounds
drift across the neighborhood
as usually they do, even in winter;
and standing here, i hold nothing.
i tilt my head upwards.
the last time i came here
(circumspice, you can see so)
i was holed up and tired
and wholly crude, and
wasted some days until i could
go home and waste some more;
now i peer around,
feeling out old ways and new,
old records spinning again,
rugs set out for tea,
and then i, unashamed
and overtaken with the simplicity
of waking up and smiling
am no longer afraid to
wake up every day,
every moment.
i am new, i am new!
i can offer myself wholly
and you may take as you please
or not, if it suits you;
let this crude missive
(altogether failing your eyes,
you won't find it,
though i sing it to you only)
bear witness to my purity.
oh, it has been so long
since i wrote a single poem!
much less one to someone.
that's you!
i stare these days octopus-eyed down
and grin my beak wide
carelessly wondering, and setting
down the book, (marking the page,)
walk away from the table at the window,
shrug on my coat,
step outside,
and think long about you;
wondering, is this the same
fog that touches our bodies both:
the fog that reaches and
laughs into our pores,
pours out our laughter,
bathes our dark night?
please, fog, surround me,
enter my body through the nose,
the skin, the mouth, and let
me rise and pass like you,
let me rub up against the window-panes
let me encircle she and he,
let me burn those linguistic tokens
and make one whole
with this so burstingly pure heart
and a soul that the sun shines through.
you can trust these ugly fingers --
don't be fooled,
they won't do you wrong.
i wake up with the day, and sleep
through the whole night.
this is the best they can do;
they've come far and seen much,
but spin this for you
and weave nothing but
what my beating blood gives.
don't be fooled by my body.
it sways, it leaps,
hairs sprout from my skin,
it is uncouth and occasionally unsure,
more often too confident, and falls,
and to you it tends,
and my blood sings along,
o, my nerves' hum is accompanying;
you can trust it to hold you,
if it pleases you.
i am unashamed to sing these words, now.
i have only several notes,
and a limited lexicon,
and a short time here;
i dissipate quickly and must
give out that which makes
my chest-muscle's seams strain;
i dance to you slowly, darling,
but don't mistake me.
these new words and new days
will speak in my hands and eyes.
even through nights when the neons
get bathed in fog.
or from the lingering ghosts
of moisture passing through the night
visible by the streetlights:
now buoyed in the haze as
i step lightly, cigarette at lips,
the book put down,
house behind me. i stare out
and see house-lights run thru by
tall grasses; no sounds
drift across the neighborhood
as usually they do, even in winter;
and standing here, i hold nothing.
i tilt my head upwards.
the last time i came here
(circumspice, you can see so)
i was holed up and tired
and wholly crude, and
wasted some days until i could
go home and waste some more;
now i peer around,
feeling out old ways and new,
old records spinning again,
rugs set out for tea,
and then i, unashamed
and overtaken with the simplicity
of waking up and smiling
am no longer afraid to
wake up every day,
every moment.
i am new, i am new!
i can offer myself wholly
and you may take as you please
or not, if it suits you;
let this crude missive
(altogether failing your eyes,
you won't find it,
though i sing it to you only)
bear witness to my purity.
oh, it has been so long
since i wrote a single poem!
much less one to someone.
that's you!
i stare these days octopus-eyed down
and grin my beak wide
carelessly wondering, and setting
down the book, (marking the page,)
walk away from the table at the window,
shrug on my coat,
step outside,
and think long about you;
wondering, is this the same
fog that touches our bodies both:
the fog that reaches and
laughs into our pores,
pours out our laughter,
bathes our dark night?
please, fog, surround me,
enter my body through the nose,
the skin, the mouth, and let
me rise and pass like you,
let me rub up against the window-panes
let me encircle she and he,
let me burn those linguistic tokens
and make one whole
with this so burstingly pure heart
and a soul that the sun shines through.
you can trust these ugly fingers --
don't be fooled,
they won't do you wrong.
i wake up with the day, and sleep
through the whole night.
this is the best they can do;
they've come far and seen much,
but spin this for you
and weave nothing but
what my beating blood gives.
don't be fooled by my body.
it sways, it leaps,
hairs sprout from my skin,
it is uncouth and occasionally unsure,
more often too confident, and falls,
and to you it tends,
and my blood sings along,
o, my nerves' hum is accompanying;
you can trust it to hold you,
if it pleases you.
i am unashamed to sing these words, now.
i have only several notes,
and a limited lexicon,
and a short time here;
i dissipate quickly and must
give out that which makes
my chest-muscle's seams strain;
i dance to you slowly, darling,
but don't mistake me.
these new words and new days
will speak in my hands and eyes.
even through nights when the neons
get bathed in fog.