Wednesday, July 12, 2006

• Pointillism

  Heartsongs,
  words on a page,
  all we are is dust in the wind?

  My blog is just one channel,
  my voice one vessel.
  Invoke/inviting nestle
  in my cradling arms.

  The power of hunger,
  of nostalgia,
  of Lewis's sublime Joy.
  Hunger drives.

  Necessity is the mother of invention,
  its father the dollar
  (maybe a surrogate sundry elusive altruism out there?)
  ((out where?))

  Words frolic bucolic,
  rapping chronic (demonic/woo-ha!)
  Dripping tripping rhymes
  and seething crimes
  in the pit of the stomach
  and the back of my head.

  Summertime and living's
  easy enough,
  grit and fluff and the flavor
  of a mocha silk on a mellow day.

  She wraps
  the lines around themselves
  and hips eclipse
  reverberation of the mingus years.

  It's hard to speak in my own words sometimes.
  Poet laureates and sycophants,
  dreamers, bleeders,
  can fuel the fire,

  And in the meantime
  (I refuse to quote Down's newest)
  I'll shuffle the silt,
  ideas and wilting guilt,
  the anger, anguish
  (the agony and the irony)

  and the joys,
  all the girls and boys making all that noise,

  and support your right to burn the flag
  and be what you are
  and Love in the way you can,
  because judgment isn't up to man.
  It's up to God to damn
  and hug us and hold us,
  His beloved,
  His own.

  • 11:06 AM
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