whiskey whispers
sound like you

a burning smokey river
-fire down below

kiss my fever

whiskey whispers-
get me through.

r ~ 9/21/14

the dragonfly is on the tip
still,
as is the air and so the bamboo;
and one observes
what is before one
not forming an image or opinion
or an appreciation
but one observes
what is before one
the dragonfly and the tip of the bamboo
and the air
and not even with names
and there is but that

there’s a rat and there’s a cat
both sitting on the fence
(literally on the fence -
cats and rats don't take up positions on issues)

and a boy happens to pass by;
the rat turns to the cat
but says nothing cause rats don’t talk;
the cat turns to the rat
and eats the rat
cause it’s in its nature to do so

the boy walks past
with no idea what’s happening
cause he’s human
(though they talk and eat a lot,
humans have no idea what’s happening)

His innocent eyes full of questions
looking my face, shaking his voice
Worried about the future and fare of losing
Asked me a question
You are cold as a rain and
I am hot as a sun
Can we be happy together?

I hold his hand, making him secure
Looking at outside
Making him smile
See its raining and sun is shining
Together they make beautiful rainbow
And believe me dear its perfect

I close my eyes, He Kissed my lips
We are together and its perfect
:)

then I tried the stage
me an actor, the thespian  
(Shakespearean, Greek tragedian
you know)
"Man and the arms I sing" - like that -
and so the director told me
I'd come on stage left,
a dramatic moment
amidst full sound effects
(and full house, of course)
and I would proclaim:
"O ye Gods, and O ye elements
and O ye thunder - rage on, rage on
for I fear not"

and I so galloped on stage
amidst full sound effects
(and full house, of course)
but I was confused by the sudden
and raging thunder above my head
and I proclaimed instead:
"What the **** was that?"


*And so ended my stage career
as it began
with a bang

I wonder if it's really true,
this metallic thing,
I'm going to exercise?

We are young, they say,
like the new stars forming,
like the ocean sounds adorning
sleep to the city dweller,
with his leathered face
but handsome pay.

He's exchanging the sirens
for a more rhythmic pace,
taking off his coat
and professional face,
to press you to the wall,
forgetting the Keats and the Byrons
that came before.

We are young, I'm sure,
despite having to crawl,
despite disappearing into
the city sprawl,
and returning half a person,
only memory intact,
and a stream of shutting doors.

You're giving up too soon.
Too soon a disciple of established fact,
too soon beguiled by
your own stage-lit act;
a smile worn, rather than felt,
a dress bought for him,
but never touched,

and for all of the hands
you may have dealt,
not a single one
has kept you young.