my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

I feel like a foreigner
standing on a pier
waiting for word from a lover
across the blue water of tears.

Paris in the springtime.
Dark winter in the land of fall.
Of guns and bombs.
Machines that ****, at will.
Whose will it is?
Is what we finding ourselves asking?
As human beings.
We implore the end to evil deeds.
Evils preceding war.
God bless the lost,
God bless the lonely.
If only he would.
Paris must survive.
Joie d'vivre.
(c)LIVVI