Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Sylvia


Like her, I know the flatness of men
and the urgent sounds of beehives.
Like her, spiraling down and down,
falling like Alice; the madness.
Hold to a flimsy rope and heave up
again and again.
And from the grave I hear her
whisper to take the plunge
finish the fall
at the bottom is the raging river.
I seek the language.
Let the words go and go and go.
Hard won sanity shivers.

Thoughts on thoughts


Thoughts
Flowing
Spiraling
Surging
slowing at a narrow
Flinging bits of self
Across the landscape of paper.
Words make a break for freedom.

There is a breeze moving the humid hot air
kicking ripples across the stillness of water,
And like this blank paper
it is filled with teeth and hooks
and nibbling lips
kissing the under-surface,
showing me they are there.

But the things moving under the green scum
are invisible to me.