Thursday, September 4, 2008

The Perch

Sitting on a porch,
a perch for a better view
of the instant tense,
much better than the present,
Of course, it's not the words I say
but the ones I don't that sting
a little. They aren't meant for you,
you see. They are meant for the
the vent pushing out a draft of stale air.
Staying for awhile, suspended,
until it's pushed out
above the atmosphere,
waiting for wind.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Inside Eleven Two

Could you ever,
turn your voice in to a song?
I hear falsities,
a persistant kick drum,
a recording played backwards
until the words are a drill.
Proclamations broken in hours,
and excellence in bullshit.
It could be ten years ago,
the way stories are told, retold, told louder.
I don't care.

The story you write for your self will
have one ending, same for all your friends.
I'ts not a whiteout I see coming, but the sound of the
phone that eventually stops ringing.