Tuesday, June 21, 2011
is a young man
leaning back in a creaking wooden chair
outside a sandwich shop
beside all the vegetable-selling stalls.
The market sunlights
feels all the better
when all the wonderful faces
turn to look at dark-dirt born potatoes.
"$1.99/pommes de terre, tres sucré !"
A fresh stretch
into the brimming hour,
the immersed breather
carries himself on the pavement
holding between both hands
an utmost ascending burst of life.
Green park hillsides
are sown sweetly
into the woven tapestry
upon which he weaves
his stitched times of talks walks
and gliding slides of wheels
atop the longest of North-South streets.
A translation to freedom
is struck with the harmony of flickering matches
outside on walled terraces
covered by the night's hat of stars and reflected light.
In a circle of spinning tounges
he will place his phrases
alongside growing fires of conversation
Touch his shoulder,
expect that head to turn today
but at night
look for those sprawling breaths
which surely celebrate
all who dance.
Leaping between open chests,
firmly the bundled tapestry of his
will be unfurled on sunny days
where green lawns and lush simplicity
touch the tinged frays of dreamy woken-moments.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
holding all our toes in a frenzy
drenched in calcium-pasted looks
as the sizzle of fat
drips and dissipates into the hallow dark.
The turning hands hold hungry eyes,
a mouth wet with peaches
fears not though
the envious hunger growing inside
when the surrounding smell is ample enough
to feed a thousand men.
I pile a mound of nourished light
precisely between both my shoulders
where my neck plunges above my chest.
This glow sits here
so all who sit and gallivant in their sweetness
may see the illuminated length
that shines over the rungs of space and vibration
standing monumentally against the stars.
A content hush took off its trousers
left its muddied socks by the lake,
and plunged deep into reflective waters
so that its very nature
may swell with the refreshing burst
held by summer and surplus sunlight.
twirl the treetops into shifting greens,
the mailbox closes as Mr. Postman drives away
a shutting motion revives a morning notion
and like the treetops
the day begins to spin away
from the kitchen to the hammock
out past a voice that soars
into the valleys
traversed by both smog and sweat.
The tones ringing out the windows
sleep in a chorus of drone
while tired bodies stretch themselves
across ruffled bedsides and on top
the painted shine of each others arms.
When the chorus echoes rise
taking the sun in both day-dreaming hands,
these eyes will peel free
to shudder and then marvel
in a foam of grass-covered hues
at the burning day and its fruits
which fall into our soft woven baskets
as the bugs taste the tiny juices
that burst forth when the fruits
splatter against the basket bottom.