Brian Wilson.
I believe in Brian Wilson
and the beauty of melancholia
and the things going on
between the notes.
There’s a conduit
we can’t quite hold
the sound of us
growing old.
So yeah,
I believe.
December 1, 2004 - Poem about Senses
June 14, 2004 - Poem about Senses
Slow Burner
The neck of a cigarette
all shimmer and promise
straw dry in the stifle
of the hottest day.
It pretends, to shade
char of stone-dry bones
ripened under heat
from waring sun.
Mirage of sweetened air
and slow blood cooled,
the lead footed and weary
follow this shadow’s lure.
Today, I imagine this false wind
and curl up as old parchment
to stop myself inhaling
the tinderstick splinters
of its powdered air.