Monday, November 29, 2010

Siren Song

What's left in the scraps and debris of a day?

I've just run two miles; my ears throb from the music (Counting Crows, Bob Dylan, The Killers) and my thighs throb from the unpaved pavement that is this city's roads.

Not much poetry at all in this debris.  But you're reading and I'll write.

I want to know your middle name.

I want to know what color sheets you sleep on; I want to sleep on them while you work.

What do you think about when you can't sleep and why can't you sleep?

When was the last time you laughed so hard it hurt?  When was the last time you cried?

How long has it been since you buried yourself deep in an arching, gasping girl?  And then let her recover herself lying on your chest?

These are the things of life, I suppose.

What's life but breath and smiles, sunsets and goodbye?

Come tumbling toward me, then.

Bring your wants and needs.  Bring your darkness and desire and let me be the siren singing you home.

We'll wreck a landscape of sheets, streets and sunset-glazed grass and laugh, laugh, laugh.

Now, truly.

What's your middle name?










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