my favorite time of day
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Subject:my favorite time of day
Date: Thu, 28 Oct 1999 21:07:16 CDT
Perhaps I should call it my favorite time of the evening, except that it's just soooo favorite that it takes the golden ring of just about any day I have. You...special you.
I came this evening in the dark, after a large cuppa java @ JavaBreak with MikeBell, who of course spoke constantly throughout that time. It's as if he has no stop-valve within him, but a compulsion to talk, talk, talk. I find him very attractive (tho I'm not gay) physically and love him as a good buddy, but his talking eventually wears away at the fabric of that social intercourse thing. Is it how he keeps himself alone?
And how do I do that?
Utterance, which means it's not a poem, dammit, but merely an utterance.
I am caught between
Sky and earth
And my world cants
Beneath my feet,
Octagonally.
A roof,
Shingles beneath
Trim waiting
Paintbrush in my hand.
This is how I am
As I think of you
With the sun
Such a circle as to
Embarrass me with its
Perfection
And the line of
Trees both bronchial
And like cilia,
My perimeter.
My world slides beneath
My feet
And I am careful
As I walk
Just as I am careful
When I think of you
As the paint spreads
Like a shine of slime
So clean and perfect
From my steady hand.
My mind is steady now,
Focused on you,
And I think of
Raspberries
And I am suddenly giddy.
A silly thought,
I will banish it
In a minute
For if I think of it
Too long
I may lose my balance
And fall
To the unforgiving earth
Which does not consider
Raspberries when the trees
Are in such submission.
I think
(Despite myself)
Of your breasts
And (despite myself)
Of your nipples
Which bewitch me
With the notion of raspberries.
How silly.
I am 55
And on a roof
And the trees have submitted
To winter
But the cottonwoods are
Difficult, always slow
To accept the inevitable.
Just as I am slow
To move away from the thought
Of raspberries
And how you live within your art
And how your art dances through you
And how my balancing act
On this roof
Is a kind of artless
Performance
As is my life.
My world lies beneath my feet,
Octagonal,
And when I piss over
The side
The drops are suddenly
So clear as to smash me into
Some kind of awakening:
They are
Globules
Arcing out
Perfectly round
Moving so fast,
Falling like Icarus
From a demented sky
And they are green
On the edges
And yellow
In the middle
And clear on the upper side.
I am thinking now
Of raspberries
Which are not globules
Nor green
Nor yellow
Nor clear
And with my world
Canting beneath my feet
Nothing is suddenly clear
Except
My love for
You
And you
And you.
Even if
Perchance
Your nipples might not
Resemble
Raspberries
As mine
Most certainly
Do not.
~~~~~~~~~~
That was an impromptu. Welcome to the Circle, Garnet. Ms, if you happen to like that one, put it in the Hold. K?
There were so many things again today which I wanted to hold and keep for you, the Kaw River flowing so smooth and slow and dark and steady. I stopped and looked for you, and promised myself I would take the poetry away with me to share with you, but it has fled.
Carol writes that the Circle has been some kind of magical liberation force. She (I think) has written to another. I wonder, now, how this thing will go. Will you begin to correspond with one another? And , if so, what a lovely thing that I was a part in all of this.
Tracy, your poetry amazes me. Carol from Seattle, oh gawd, you are so incredibly real. You are so plugged in to what Eros is all about. I worship your holy words
Just as
I worship Msallthat, my kinky lover-in-tempahrarry-exile, hiding out somewhere in Philly or soon to be LA. Heh. (Or HAR, as she would say.) I must someday ride the gray bitch westward and see her, and also Lore, one of my oldest and dearest.
Sigh. Tomorrow we must get some progress on the house. Steve did not seem all that happy tonight, even though I had busted my butt sanding the entire damned deck and sealing it, putting in the missing screws, fixing his screw-ups.
Monte did next to nothing, but seems utterly at peace with it. MikeBell did next to nothing but can justify it ad infinitum. But I worked, steadily, and I stood on a roof and thought of you.
My Circle.
So perfect.
(Smiling broadly now.)
Who luvsya?
Dickens
