Concrete

I am too concrete to bend,
to twist my tongue
and make my fingers dance
in red shoes; watching
in envy from the sidelines.
while dust motes and gold light
fill up the room, they talk
about feathers and dark tunnels.
I can only see the bloom
of flowers on the windowsill, smell
their perfume, and they talk
about bricks in their bones
and trees in their hands.
I give up and breathe deep
and grip the concrete.








I admire the writers that can take something that can connect two things that seem totally irrelevant in my mind, and then make them relevant and beautiful. It's even more inspiring, because I find it so difficult to do. It's like connecting a soda machine to the ocean, or a june bug to a piggy bank. What?

Love

I am reading a book about
love and things, it's
beautiful. There's
a girl who does not love
things, though she is full of
potential love (almost exploding
with it) and I think maybe,
I am the opposite.
The sunset; broken mug;
book so old it has been
taped together multiple times,
multiple places; these
are all things I love. Yet when
I look inside, I only see hope.
My love does not live
within me- it is around me.






I'm almost nearly done with Everything is Illuminated, and I've been reading it quite a bit. Whenever someone asks what I'm reading, and what it's about, I just fail to explain.
This is actually not a good poem at all, and I'm going to blame that on the lack of motivation & creativity.

Found

I almost said "found each other", but
the words fell short
and stayed in my mouth;
I had to stop and think
because all I could see
was a clip of two hands reaching
out across a distance and searching
for contact.
Do people find each other?
Do we wander through life
discovering the existence of
friends and loved ones, like
famous explorers coming back
with expanded maps?
Or are we half asleep,
fumbling in the dark
for who knows what?






I've always been interesting in how some phrases work, and the imagery attached to them.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEG!