Hot and heavy air leftover from
July cook-outs and August vacations
feels embarrassed and overweight.
The wispy crispy winds are late,
with noisy, fretting joints wandering
from September onward.
Spice is in vogue, but the sweat
still dances, salted, with calm
seabreezes and sunlit minerals.
The days are still soft and pillowy,
but the witchy smells enter pores,
flattening and drying out leaves.
Manufactured stones and
controlled lawns are calmly blanketed
with everyone’s shivers.
07 October, 2013
09 September, 2013
A Summer's Worth
You can smell the gin from
the other side of the street.
The sway and swagger of people,
indecisive and mischievous,
match the fragrance well.
As the misaligned, misinformed pilgrims
dance on one another’s graves,
they smile on without purpose, boasting
of ancient cultures and assuming
the veil of impermanence.
A feeling much like that
of a fruit-fly or bag of trash,
sinks into skins, marinating souls and
adding to Summer’s spice,
which burns the tongues and all organs.
The disposable nature created during
the sweaty run of the vernal months
washes away hope once felt during
the Spring, previously deadened by
Winter, with unrequited attentions.
On beaches and in booths and with
stony silences, the mingling of
breaths and intentions, with spirits and
Spirit, a fragile bubble of cheer,
leave the season in a fit.
Smelling the many hopes dashed and
left to drain out, those swaggering
wonder if there’s any room for
love still, or if the gin smell has burned
all the bridges of expectation.
the other side of the street.
The sway and swagger of people,
indecisive and mischievous,
match the fragrance well.
As the misaligned, misinformed pilgrims
dance on one another’s graves,
they smile on without purpose, boasting
of ancient cultures and assuming
the veil of impermanence.
A feeling much like that
of a fruit-fly or bag of trash,
sinks into skins, marinating souls and
adding to Summer’s spice,
which burns the tongues and all organs.
The disposable nature created during
the sweaty run of the vernal months
washes away hope once felt during
the Spring, previously deadened by
Winter, with unrequited attentions.
On beaches and in booths and with
stony silences, the mingling of
breaths and intentions, with spirits and
Spirit, a fragile bubble of cheer,
leave the season in a fit.
Smelling the many hopes dashed and
left to drain out, those swaggering
wonder if there’s any room for
love still, or if the gin smell has burned
all the bridges of expectation.
20 August, 2013
On some Shore
On some shore, any shore,
that notates the passing of time
and circumference of rocks,
we sit.
On some shore, gray shore,
which separates true love from
just lust, sand sticking with heat,
we gaze.
On some shore, sunny shore,
calming the blood and breath
with an uncanny rhythm, slow,
we rest.
On some shore, any shore,
where air meditates and Venus’
foam decorates elements,
we smile.
that notates the passing of time
and circumference of rocks,
we sit.
On some shore, gray shore,
which separates true love from
just lust, sand sticking with heat,
we gaze.
On some shore, sunny shore,
calming the blood and breath
with an uncanny rhythm, slow,
we rest.
On some shore, any shore,
where air meditates and Venus’
foam decorates elements,
we smile.
16 August, 2013
Briny Summer
Hung up on an unlove with
the summer temperature matching
that of the blood inside veins,
this salted, vinegared season
lasts only so long as the tongue warrants.
Tastefully, with regret that
mixes with grease, bubbles dance
in between teeth and hostile
history as buses scream past and
actions are accounted for.
the summer temperature matching
that of the blood inside veins,
this salted, vinegared season
lasts only so long as the tongue warrants.
Tastefully, with regret that
mixes with grease, bubbles dance
in between teeth and hostile
history as buses scream past and
actions are accounted for.
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