It was too much like a poem to me.
Prose.
geez, guy, you built
that thing!
Just seems a little too Jesus
for me-- as in, you walk the red velvet lane
and, they comment on the shoes
you wore underwater. OK. I understand.
So it's just me? No, No, there are others you've just got to
listen.
Like into water lapping, and you can
finally find out what sound is.
Those critics.
O we hung out, talked of
open mouths- Anne Sexton
tripped through the curtain
to catch the falling hearts.
This, her only promise.
I set the aluminum Coke down
onto the metal circle, crossing
my legs.
But, you know
I barely listen to the words anymore.
Always trying to find something else.
The only thing I agreed to was contact.
all the while
the person not
speaking stroked a golden quill
hugging a royal purple curtain,
with frills like a rug.
Dreaming of themselves.
This began with the sound of high-
heels slightly muted, she didn't
wobble, either -- which was nice
But you'd think with so many
voices still calling from the water
that the critic would just create something.
OK, I said.
Let's make a proposition.
-----Who?
Well, you saw me, so let's do
something with it.
Well the alarm clock Jesus
broke and we had to hold something
as vaguely as nails without drawing
blood
just to keep us awake. So,
naturally, the water, my head
resting on a rock. And You,
here, gathered round this white
and black meeting. Listen.
Simple as that. No tax returns,
no rerouted FedEx packages,
No nametags, No colored nametags
No more colors.
So someone must have broken through
the swingset like a tornado and
hid like a leaf in a pile of wood for the fire-
place. So it was OK.
Now we work on a name.
Copy that fax to my mother, would'ya?
Boss is late today
and these spiked things feel
like they fell from the trees.
She must figure out
when I am kidding and when I am not.
Then the glass of water is naturally woodgrain
once the window hits.
