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    Wednesday, February 09, 2005


    The slick-wet-black of the pavement. Raindrops pool along the sides of curbs. When I close my eyes against the thin light I see expelled leaves, browned and stuck to the undersides of shoes, leaves smashed between treads. Simply mashed underfoot.

    Do you have a language I need to learn?

    The delicate nature of a just plucked goose feather, only it was plucked from a down comforter by the cats.

    How a pinhole can cause an all day leak.

    The balance of your voice is tipping sideways. The wine glass can swish its contents with a sharp tap to the base. Breathe deeply, inhale. Can you hear the tapping of the blind mans cane—it’s hitting the wall—he is in a hallway.

    The fleeting idea of continuity is your through strand.

    A dropped book in the rain, ruins the story. Can you carry on without the words? Rivulets of ink along a bumpy medium. A Korean artist paints into, not against, the grain of old Korean paper. Makes art on pre-existing surfaces. A crease in the paper defines a wrinkled forehead, can make known character flaws with paint brushed ease.

    A possibly known shoulder shrug or eye wink, yes.

    A trapped fly lives between the screen and glass of my kitchen window. It flies into the pane again and again. Each time a bit more dazed than the last.

    Finally, rests.


    Anonymous Anonymous said...

    A possibly known shoulder shrug or eye wink, yes

    not so sure about that one

    11:02 AM  
    Anonymous Michael said...

    I like this one alot. It sorta reads like a narrative, well in my mind anyway...

    7:47 PM  
    Blogger Kristine said...

    That's very funny that you say that Mike. I'm pretty anti-narrative in a traditional sense and this poem is talking about anti-narrative sentiments. I think it's always interesting how people feel the need to create those strands and strive for plot or story or something to carry them through. That's good to know.

    1:21 PM  

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