being a tiger was hard.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Cure for Gentleness is Insomnia
I lower my hands,
as dust
settling on wood floors.
silent and not sighing,
slowly daring my gypsum eyes
to roll
as rocks down the steep walls of a ravine.
I am downtown breaking and entering
the house of squatters, squabblers.
In this hollow womb
of a ritzy cafe owned building.
I can only sing
until the air has all escaped
from my pink, doll house lungs.
I could take my hands,
make fists to pound flour into flat cakes
of some violent knowledge.
I can form my tiny paws
into trowels
to scoop out the earth
to make wet sandcastles,
dirt mound libraries.
Yes, this is better
than the pummel of small hammers.
And I lower my hands
as if they were dust sailing on the wind.
Singing arias to quiet the loft dwellers,
to quiet the homeless politicians,
to quiet the sawtooth naysayers of the dark Pre-Cambrian sea,
to quiet my own willow-blue teacup heart.
And now I can sleep
in that cabin
as dust
settling on wood floors.
silent and not sighing,
slowly daring my gypsum eyes
to roll
as rocks down the steep walls of a ravine.
I am downtown breaking and entering
the house of squatters, squabblers.
In this hollow womb
of a ritzy cafe owned building.
I can only sing
until the air has all escaped
from my pink, doll house lungs.
I could take my hands,
make fists to pound flour into flat cakes
of some violent knowledge.
I can form my tiny paws
into trowels
to scoop out the earth
to make wet sandcastles,
dirt mound libraries.
Yes, this is better
than the pummel of small hammers.
And I lower my hands
as if they were dust sailing on the wind.
Singing arias to quiet the loft dwellers,
to quiet the homeless politicians,
to quiet the sawtooth naysayers of the dark Pre-Cambrian sea,
to quiet my own willow-blue teacup heart.
And now I can sleep
in that cabin
I built out of gentleness and pine.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sunday, July 19, 2009
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