How sweet the linen
that grandeur weaves,
unseen by other's untrained eyes,
yet seemingly hard to sew
into the fabric of our own
immediate lives.

At nine p.m.
      they roll up
            the crooked
                  sidewalks
                        like they're
                              fabric bolts.

And every neon
      light in the diner
            window flickers
                  in commercial dim.

When winter comes
      sometimes i drive past
            the closed ice cream stand
                  and think about what i never did.

At nine p.m.
      they shut off
            their overhead
                  living room lights.

Every dog is
      in for the night
            and only the cats
                  are crossing the street.

Small town
      cozy village
            happy people
                  normal sleepers.

                  so incredibly
            law-abiding
      stability's key
Not like me.

                             at nine p.m.
                        they roll up
                  the crooked
            sidewalks
      like they're
Fabric bolts.

                              but i've always
                        felt the need to
                  walk the streets
           around ten p.m.
      pretend they're
Still concrete.

Not even a question anymore
Just wondering

Do the vibrations
That are concocted
From deep within the
Silk that nestles
In my esophagus

Do they reach
Your diamond implanted
Drums of sound
That can translate
Every woolen word
Into reality?

They say
  "A stitch in time
      Can tend to save you nine"
But it seems
   These seams
I tend
  To mend
      Have cost me
All of mine

Caught in the fold
   Just between the lines
         Where seams
Are more than seems
   And dreams
Are hung to dry
  The fabric of time
Just matter on the line

sometimes you never really know
how the carpet looks
until you stare at it so long
that the fabric melts in
you start to feel cross that you cant
distinguish
whether it is purple with yellow waves
or yellow with purple waves
or if it's just really
ugly carpet to begin with.

rich with the depth
and intensity
of oxidized blood,
a plushness caresses my bare skin.

my fingers tracing against the grain of the fabric
slowly seducing
as the canvas
becomes duo chrome
the tip of my finger
a nymph
cunning and artful

the strokes
offering an insatiable
thirst
yet so in control

finally it succumbs
turning a tide of new color
permeating from where my touch once was
a culmination of sorts
leaving you enamored.