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June 7th, 2007

(given its theme, seems wrong to fix it now,
and, anyway, funny it lacks a line,
with all that there about counting them out)

I'm so damned dogged by much. The sober time
lurks, always, merely hours off, or less---
just words, or lack of words, and there it is.
How did I come to such a state as this?
Not good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.
The cotton from the cottonwoods flies down
but once a year, this very time, in Spring,
and sometimes, like this afternoon, it's not
a tickle---looking for a sec like snow,
or flashback to outside in childhood---
but sadly aimless. Dry. Floating. Like tears
that can't rain down, or wafting drops
not dropping. Dry. I'm dry, beside the lake.
They say that water, in your dreams, means life.

about fed up with this iambic crap

They say that water in your dreams means life,
Whatever you may take that line to mean.
The water also could just mean a pipe
Is leaking over where you dream your dreams.
They say we lust for what we haven't got---
Too easy to agree and disagree;
They say, as I do, lots of claptrap rot
That means whatever you decide it means.
This balmy, thick-aired night I've had enough.
I want the heaviness to break, as it won't do.
My worn-down soul wants just your simple touch,
And, thoughtlessly, and simply, to touch you.
And simple isn't anywhere in view,
And simple seems impossible with you.
Mo and discy disc


Postcard of the Day

(a feature involving a postcard on a day)

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For another postcard thing, see
my old postcard poems tumblr or
its handy archive.

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Many posts are friends-only; livejournal "friend" me and tell me who you are if you wanna read.


"What was once thought cannot be unthought."

-- Möbius, The Physicists


"The moment of change is the only poem."

-- Adrienne R.


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