3 poems of August 14, 2008

Talk Is Cheap


Are you quite comfortable now Missy?
Well yes and no, you know how it is.
I do?
You should.
You're that voice in my head and I seem to
be quite intimate with you, or more precisely,
you with me, you even sleep with me and you've
seen me naked from the very start.
O yeah
I keep forgetting about that.

But you have a point to this particular conversation
today, yes? Well. Yes. And no. There's no point to
any of this is there? Any of what my dear?
All this thinking and talking. Hmmm. Except for
doing some simple computations most folks have
not developed this art-form. I'm quite fond of you,
really,
however, you have taken this beyond the beyond, and
you're so far *out there* people think you're a bimbo.
hehehe. That's my son's endearing name for me since he
was a young teen. So tell me Dearie, where has all this
thinking gotten you? Well it's not really the thinking that
*gets* me, it's my feelings and then thinking about my feelings;
I've been wondering, do most people think about their feelings?
How, the hell am I supposed to know? You read enough shit,
don't you? Well... yes.... I suppose that could be a problem.
As a matter of fact it is problematic sometimes, there's wayyyyy
too many voices in my head now.

Time for a break. Yeah. Nice chatting with you. Talk to you later,
Yeah. If the incoming line is still connected, we never have to think
about the outgoing one.

2.

Sartre Leaves


Sartre wrote about
No Exists
while a lotus flower silently
listens
polar bears can not
float in a vast ocean
with no place to roam
humans can not live
without love,
by bread alone

from where does all this sorrow come?
where does the dove fly with
olive branch descend?

Quote the raven "Nevermore",
plucking out the eyes of those
who will never see the truth,

never hold a leaf against the light,
the play is finished, go home.

Amen.


3.

For S…

How deep is the colourless ocean
when the warm sand lies
beneath our feet?

How far does your voice carry
in the still of night
on the other side
of I?

How high is the moon

we move
with child-like fingers?

We have no homes now,
silk-skinned Vagabonds
in Sacred Poems

we gather,

like starlight

in
an oasis of dreams,

fierce Lovers.