the squirrels running
on fallen leaves make pathways
into the future

It comes from talking too fast.
Words from thought spill through
me.  I am unadorned with
punctuation.  I write in long
lines of ideas switching from
one to another like trestles.

Some thoughts get stuck or are
trapped under wheels. They rub
me clumsily.

I speak only English in a stomach
churning speed.  To tell you how
beautiful you are takes pages and
curls of rushing lines.

I am a jumble of ideas out loud.
A scorch of syllables.  I digress
of course.  I am a stumble of
sounds, a cataract of meanings.

Listen to the scrape of pen, the
words enlighten,emerge, into
conversation.


Caroline Shank
6.8.2023

the doomed are the blessed
free of the worry of fate
or misfortune

the doomed dance
in bars
when no music is playing

the doomed are...
never lonely
and everyone is more beautiful
the eyes smile
the legs are long
(almost always a waitress)

the doomed
know what they want
*** and love and mystery
the pleasure of the morning after kiss     

they know dying
isn't any way to be living

humanity is doomed
I'm doomed
we're all doomed

aren't YOU?

blame it on the moon
shame on Eve

we are the catbird in the bushes buying time
a moment of sunlight fading in the grass

~
Bergamot morning

the astronauts are sleeping

and she dreams like a mannequin

ceiling stars abound

like hummingbirds in celestial flight

about the nectar of

young bodies, young machines

we drew a map together

from burst to bloom

from fever to neckline

from scale to mirror

pretty scar, a thing of awe

when the curious girl

realized she was under glass

raining in time lapse

she traversed me ad rem

with might and main

I didn't have the heart

to wake us from

her brainchild's motif
~