Saturday, February 5, 2011

Dirt Bones

Labyrinthian rows of books,
You rise up towering with backpacks, beard, hat, a cluttered old troll in the warmth
Back to the wine and designer balsamic
But we are not designer
We are the appreciators
The non-creators,
The critics of that which we feel we understand,
But are unable to create

The blank canvases in a world devoid of color,
Nothing to paint ourselves with
Nothing to understand

I suddenly remember magnolias
And nights of magic
Lights under sheet tents
Glowing skin and smiles
Hot water steaming the mirrors for messages
That fade with the heat
But which will never leave my mind
Nights of midnight roamings
Making way for red veined eyelids
Under dappled trees and green grass
Breathing the breath of the living which so quickly fails
With all that is easy

Another midnight wanderer
Indulging in sporadic whims
Who wakes up hating himself in the green glow of the aspidistra
In the sad film on the edge of his tea cup
In the dark filth of his bed, his narrow little hallway
His unfulfilled desires left in trash can alleys
And outside glowing windows
Which you passed on the way to the river
Who’s black surface told you nothing that you did not already know:
That life is only as long as you want,
Yet much shorter than you had hoped
Even though you had many times enjoyed the luxury of trying to decide
When that would be

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