"you make me want to be a better person"
the meme bites like a spring morning
but what's improving in old age?
sure, we may count on or up
although memory's a sock with holes of its own
on the edge of where we'll go next
tiny creatures walking about a long playing vinyl record
each asking, "what songs exist at the centre?"
direction appears important
I guess we may read the title
(you and me the correct small height for this at that moment)
it could be The Beatles White Album
or Bitches Brew - Miles knew some things
I'd choose Sinatra and Hazelwood's Some Velvet Morning
but an instructional hour could prove valuable
mending our lives with time and whispers
a ten step programme for timeless tricky children
transferred into a community icon (you, uh, me)
and a valuable resource (me, uh, you)
while we privately smooch hours into beautiful nowhere
the plenty of memory produces a case of sideways
both of us open other worlds but some remain locked
depending how we turn
look - gather - create boundaries – flex – eat well - sing
the quiet of an empty room with a jug boiling
someone about to return any minute
reminded of an eiderdown
while a jet engine whines over our building
shrill technology as out-of-date as boiling the laundry
if only we could admit our failure to effectively fly
your duvet a cloud however in a play
our characters newly re-met old friends
one with less lines but more to say
the other talkative and sometimes MIA
both wounded soldiers of art
o those rhymes and songs sure can smart
trees outside nod and beckon
a ballet of leaves - they sing to me
usually sonorous and helpful like bassoons
booming green
and wood suggests to take good heart
in language as straight forward as a conspiracy theory
but less alarming
(a spy film could suit this nevertheless
we're so subterranean and super in sunglasses)
but before I see you again
we find legs as long as Dali's elephants
only to fall as small as Lautrec gazing up at ruffles
while Picasso's shattered women cry
(my dreams hum)
Chagall floats misty doves into the shower
and I could lay art history thick about us
carpets - music boxes - concepts
instead I've collected numbers
of blank pages
and empty rooms
a co-incidence of nowhere much
our collusion of contentment
why I cry
a pattern for a carpet weaver
walking across soft colour
pieces of what we know placed as a pathway
eating organic rose petals with breakfast
scattered as if they reveal something
one falls to the floor
I leave it there to remind me
what love does when mixed with presumption
something's crushed
inventing from random elements through uncertain hours
reminded of our frailty
forgetting how love shapes us invincible and liquid
caught now and missing what I call freedom
imagination tricks it up as if I lived in a palace of feathers
I floated and giggled there - but this is a lie
that too a cause for weeping
the act of crying produces something I need
reminded how much collapses or disappears
I chase what I think I want around the crowded side of the bed
as inarticulate as a stone
fear and erratic sparkles of flash-back
the true reason for tears appears much later
impossibilities exist
like how we are here together now and always too apart
