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Showing posts from May, 2011

These Are My Words, My Neon, SIliconed, Carcinogenic Words. But This Is My Poem, My Poem About Elvis.

It was her first day in town.
Chewing on a fresh stick of gum, she was looking up and down the street; eyes sliding over the bustle of sweat and sin.
'Little girl lost?' I asked.
And she sighed.

I would say to her over and over again on that first day,'Laugh with me, Jenny,"
And sometimes she would.
Especially when I made my funny faces at her.
She would try not to; she would just roll her eyes at me, but that smile would come. White teeth and soft lips.
And then she would laugh and laugh and laugh, until her body shook and her hair was covered her eyes.
And I would want to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her...
But I dared not try.

I took her to see the kittens down at Paul's pet store.
She held them close to her, rubbing them with her face, but she fancied the talking bird more. He said, "Hi, beautiful," when he saw her. Really, to any woman walking by, but she did not know.

I took her down to see Bruno and his lunch-time sound; strumming his guitar and sucking h…

Later This Week

Perhaps I will just ignore my Dashboard for awhile longer. Blat on about my days or nights. I used to do that here too.

Get used to the feel of the keyboard under my fingers again. You know, write more than the 140 character twit.

It's not that I am empty. Just dissatisfied. And then, not even with everything.

There is joy in my life.

And it is springtime in Canada.

Always a good time for new beginnings.

Flexing

It's rarely quiet in my home these days. Even now as 2 am closes in around me the television blats in the background; more of William and Kate. I should be in bed. Children always wake early on a Sunday. Why is that? I remember sunny days and being out the door by 7 o'clock myself. The new dew soaking my sneakers, the cool breeze of early light.
Life used to be more than about the Everyday. More than going through the motions of the mudane tasks. It used to be about more than just breathing.
It was just a few years ago when the police officer pulled over Charlie and I on one of our middle of the night drives thinking he was a dirty old man with a teenager in the car. Now I look in the mirror of my 33 year old self knowing rationally that I am not all that old, but I can see the subtle changes in my features. I am aging. Somedays it consumes me. Enough Somedays that it is becoming the mundane too.
I used to think I could live on into the immortal with my words. One o…