The skinless smile on a fly hook, sleeveless
spooled arms: a r o und, a r ound, a round.
The prize is less alluring than the wanting.
The arrow aims higher than it punctures.
The investigated lump on the inside cheek,
the craggy ridge on the heel, ball, knuckle.
Wishing for the liquidation of syllables,
wires, waves; the abortion of a tongue
too slack in its nut and
the riotous shrieking of bald thought-pigeons,
burst head-hatches, axed heart-latches
in the turning air of jumping lungs. Impossible
flush, is it? Some things never stop gasping.
Time drops new curtains on old stages, except the stickiness
was never the sameness, nor the difference, but
the combination, the combination was written,
still is written in a fold somewhere: whole, edgeless.
Comments
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running up the hill...
back in the widget dens, where one discourse hustles solemn purity blends of social insatiability, I read an axiom developed in your spool of trained thought; your gilded guide built on a deck of clarity; your stainless edge becoming a catacomb of implicit expression, cut by cut on your every word, there’s a drop of bloodless dew – impressive. ~ EZB
www.moodgroove.com
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The while is an amazing collection. "Some things never stop gasping" Stopped me in my tracks. Yes it is ppoetically potent, but it began to send me on a journey of thought. Living is like that, an amalgam of small gasps. love is always that way, forever and a day "gasping" at the memory when it was full and ripe, then ocasionally a small gasp as a a recollection flies by....Incredible poem for me to read!
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FANTASTIC
The curtain folds hold many a secret. Like the coats of paint on an old house.
Brilliant. I love it
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Time drops new curtains on old stages, except the stickiness
was never the sameness, nor the difference, but
the combination, the combination was written,
still is written in a fold somewhere: whole, edgeless.
_____________________________________________Awesome words.
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