Saturday, November 8, 2008
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The truth is we can become our own sad poems, our mouths opening and closing, weeping and wailing,
half falling over ourselves day and night,
wearing mufflers, blinders and Mona Lisa smiles,
Some of us are nightly bridge walkers or roof servants, this is where we go to breathe and live in darkness,
we teeter on the edge of then and now, spoon with the moon, and find ways of conjugating with the muse of luscious sight and lovely sorrow, all the while,
looking
for
justice,
I think if we could bend our faces and cock our heads just right, we could concentrate only on the problem of matching words with places and blurred thoughts with things,
and live for the flowering of our poems alone. We could eat, sleep and preach right here, Pimping Out Love - - word by word.
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