Ceiling lights

 And some mornings you turn on

The ceiling lights 

Just to make a day brighter 

Inside

Of age, of teeth, of best friends ill 

A song plays: it’s M83’s My Tears Are Becoming A Sea

I’m reading RIPE by Sarah Rose Etter 

And the intro to Dickens A Tale of Two Cities

It’s always two cities, two sides the coin, the yin and the yang. Oh, life, you are nothing without death, but I fear you so.

Poem Exchange

I was sent an email to be part of a poem exchange:

the pain

the rain

i thought the rain would make it all better

but there's still pain

and rain

when can we go outside?

and smile, again?

hidden smiles behind masks

greet a new day

oh we remember

when our smiles were transparent

but we didn't care

now all is behind

hoping that today

the rain

will clear the pain

petit soledad

I wrote a sentence in my soul
That later I forgot,
I held your hand strong
Only to –later– let it go,
I’ve walked across continents
To find myself thirsty, fatigued, and alone
I smiled at my solitude though
& it smiled back! And softly with a little frown
It drew for me the Earth, The Moon, and the Sun
Then it all, lastly, seemed to be worth
Now me and my lonely shadow
Hand in hand, merrily we go



“In solitude, where we are least alone.”
~a Lord Byron quote

re-posting: milk & sky

[intro]
came back to
type type type
again -
the stubborn
clack clack clack
& go & go, of the hands,
their tips, their ends

to write a little poem
they clumsily
attempt

but then
they've forgotten
the way

later
the white milk
trapped in the tall glass
seems to be clearly
mocking them

mmm, milk?
milk?
and poems?...

ah!
and they remember then
those deeper
and sadder
yet writer-er
days
when little poems
came easily
yes! ... those days

and instead of a poem
the tips lazily
don't write but

re-post, so then
from June 17 of the
Two Thousand and Seven
this came

milk & sky

Morning &
I’ll walk out the door of my existence
facing a bright blue sky
&
Spilled like hot milk
On a warm morning stove
minute white clouds hop around

dazzling blue cuts this sorrow
the milk melted, was your eyes

December little poem

the office upstairs smells
like old coffee and paperwork

before long, then smells like
a-moment-ago opened-door
and like a new oomph,
as a life-force,
crossing the threshold,
the breezing coil folded up
blowing out papers stacked up for months
in an endless up-the-wind hunt

i smiled
the moment broke



(just the smell took place
the rest, just metaphors rapt in this old skull)

kitchen

life and mood
so changing on the same day
a filter of light during the early day
then the sepia
and the gray falling into
this mental landscape

my kitchen this morning
your voice
and then a soft
fairwell
all was ok

then the cold
and the lateness
of the day came

like a bitter
but soft sepia
tastes the bread

the distance
and the yearning
the unfilfilled desires
of a distant caress
is not sweet not here
is just
like warm old cup of café

the sun reflects
but warms not
not today
just another
strange-lighted
novemeber sunday

milk & sky

Morning &
I’ll walk out the door of my existence
facing a bright blue sky
&
Spilled like hot milk
On a warm morning stove
minute white clouds hop around

dazzling blue cuts this sorrow
the milk melted, was your eyes

esta mañana

es solo una niñería
y estoy ocupada en el trabajo
pero tomé notas con lápiz y papel

y la sensación del lápiz
y la sensación del papel
uno sobre el otro

una maravilla

the rain it raineth

The rain it raineth all around
Upon the just and unjust fella;
But chiefly on the just because
The unjust stole the just's umbrella.

Rain, rain, go away,
Come another summer's day;
Rain, rain, pour down,
And come no more to our town.

- taken from: I saw Esau

------------------------------------------------

all i said about you rain
nevermind
was not main
was my lazy-ass brown-bread head
come here come here
rain and hail
come here and stay
this is your city
and you are my friend
when is dry and when is wet

americana breakfast on a friday day

smell of tuna sandwich
but the coffee straight and black balances it ok out
acoustic on the back
not yes does matter anymore since why?
the smell
one one one
one on top of the other one
mattered one day
not yet to anyone
there

people in paris
sings cat & sings powers
but who cares if they are in paris?
or if this tuna is grisly?
layered within dark café
and compassionate early-friday-breakfast pain

doesn’t much matter
lately later
since in my cradle
you are not
not today not yesterday
not today not tomorrow
not again