I
catch myself
looking at my hands
and how I trust
in them.
they hold and play,
they press and grasp and fold,
capable of killing,
forcing
things
along my way;
they’re just barely under control.
Archive for April 29, 1993
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and for a split second he paused
figuring out how he got here,
a room full of people dressed in color
swirling as if the floor
was too hot to touch.
he never wanted as much
to stop the music, wonder where
he learned to move like this,
a stutter step that you can’t resist
admiring: sculpture in motion –
everyone knows he creates as he goes
– so it comes full circle like his limbs.
now you move in your unconscious arts
soaked like rain through every pore;
your love for your form
is inconcievably lovely,
believable, beyond me –
transforming, like a dress worn
for a special occasion:
a fantastic ball or a secret liason.
Untitled Poem #160
Posted: April 29, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beer, Friend, Joy, Light, Love, Smoke, Untitled
what is life without a smoke and a beer
freely given and freely recieved
like the love from your friends?
life’s little joys to be consumed
and forgotten in the moment.
happiness tends to be transitory
like the light zipping past you from the sun
or one smoke and one beer when they’re done.
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