I want Whitman to knit a sweater for me, something out of fallen leaves and everything he has seen.
I realize I’m only as smart as the things I read. I want God to make something new,
I wonder if I would even recognize it. Would we cadge it, sell it, exploit it, shove a camera in its face. I remember I haven’t been to the woods in some time. I should make more time for trees and nature. Everything likes to be heard. I should make more music. I should tap into the vein that carries my poetry and nourish the healthy habits. I should make rituals, write your walls, rich you all, rich your falls, visceral.
don’t let your love clot.
Soft like a fragrance
A perfume that’s malleable
Smacks the wind
Shoves against the wall and falls away slowly.
Chipped broken little pieces of the pretty wind
Sipped on by passengers. Inhaled by strangers,
A tough flower knows the rain
A fallen feather knows the dance
We must be feathers in the rain
We may not fly today, but soon the wings will dry
and we will be able to soar in the warmth of summer.
she caught my stare between the eyes and teeth
she smirked, but held the full smile back like the sky holds the rest of the moon from us
I wanted to love and whisper I wanted to tell those green eyes some secretes they have never heard before something my voice has never done before. Some gentle storm I could brew like coffee. A cappuccino landscape and a round lump of sugar in the sky, she’s sweet beneath the bridge that breaks when sugar melts
scattered stars could tell my heart
they could talk