the old walls are here
we cleaned them with as-seen-on-tv
cleaner
a spit shine would suffice
when the couch is cleared i'll spray and scrub the foam
kick up dust and show it who's boss
poems
the old walls are here
we cleaned them with as-seen-on-tv
cleaner
a spit shine would suffice
when the couch is cleared i'll spray and scrub the foam
kick up dust and show it who's boss
how far down does the glass go
how high up does the draw bridge go?
can we still jump over
overdrive until we can't drive anymore
peaches will be peaches when the tunes are finished, and the tunes begin again
tap water ripples waves upon the broader sea
tears come down as i watch the fairy boats
crossing through the starlit canvas of night
smoke and mirrors play
fay folk songs of long ago
forgotten by our modern age
i will wander
i will wonder
we will sit upon this fence, this precipice
we will observe the objects which cannot be seen
without the aid of manufactured vision
trails with no end
space which does not exist
Feynman isn't here to explain, and we don't need it anyway
supported by the concrete evidence of the sidewalk
meandering through fire and story
standing on the broad face of a bench
speaking the cellular voice and staring at the concrete car parade. the cycle and the damned and the walk by pedestrians, stuck, and not looking to stare
punctuation goes sideways and all thoughts are passed in this liminal space shrouded in what we can only hope is what we thought we wanted and on and on and on
the sun has set. the song has been sung
twigs grow long
the birds know
I saw this place through a window far above
shoes meet streets
beats meet beats
the strings sang songs
and I had words
and now I'd like to go back, and say those words again