i'm no longer writing vagaries ( Read more... )

wouldn't you believe it, i came back
out of black books
and attic staircases;

when last we met, my head
was a mountain ringed
with weedsmoke.

now you see its crags,
alcoholic lines, boethian
scars, neck craned up again.

up and out: the windows
are mirrors of spring rain
and a dogwood dances
to see me again.

what luck!
and where have you

 new place for things:
myspace.com/helloconor

 ah
darling

spurn not the grass,
wet tho it may be

but
i admit

the bench is as
nice; i squint

from
the sun

and look as hard
as i can into

that
soul!

that i see peeking
behind those glasses

don't
be

shy, darling; and
open those hands

like 
wings;

another sunlight
for this cold day

don't mistake me.
my silence
is not disapproval,
or contempt, or
nervousness.

when i am silent,
i am listening
to what
you aren't saying.

and luckily
you speak
volumes. 

admittedly, i'm 
not used to the Blow
of wind thru trees, hills
(back where i'm from,
the wind's an ocean whisper)

coupled with this warm
north georgia winter Rain
the piedmont opens its eyes
gratefully to be
washed all day;

and so do i
walking uphill back
to the waiting car;
soaked and holy
embracing the grey.

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 ( Read more... )

thru my open window
after the shower,
i hear
my neighbor, who
i've never heard speak,
singing an
irish air
to her
daughter.

suprisingly not un-
comfortable: the
hot wet air
on the island:

and a warm rain
(where i live now,
no matter how
hot, rain is cold)

- i can hear
the singing soil
mixed with the
voice of the water.

sunday had hints of fall dripping ( Read more... )