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concretekissListen.
It occurred to me days ago that the talent I give myself most credit for is that of self-admonishment.
In cluttered atriums there are domestic disturbances. Hungover fools who've worn out their welcomes. Fat calicoes in morning windows who dream of growing wings and snatching in midair the blackbirds that tease them. Blue girls who blush at old love letters, from prisoners in bare ventricles who mark their days on the walls. Your heart, the apartment complex, the impassioned fist keeping you awake, a peony, a cracked teacup, grenade, cardinal, apple, seashell, seed that loves to split.
Some days seem to follow a theme at the flower shop; It will be uncanny how many red-handed infidels file through the door with their tails tucked, pouting for consolation. Some days it is a succession of teary eyed families bereft of loved ones, stammering, their voices breaking over the condolences I pen onto cards for them. My hands are more steady.
I wonder if it is the stars, the moon's pull, some butterfly effect that eventually leaves them longing at the mouths of flowers to say what they find so difficult.
It's been muddy and wet out, perfect for staying in, which seemed to make last Friday the day for smitten boys who came in steady as the rain, one after another, their faces flushed in afterglow. Two of them grinned when asked to fill out the card, declining "She'll know...she'll know." One kissed my hand and almost floated out the door. And yesterday was in celebration of births, because 9 months ago people were doing all they could to keep warm.
It occurred to me days ago that the talent I give myself most credit for is that of self-admonishment.
In cluttered atriums there are domestic disturbances. Hungover fools who've worn out their welcomes. Fat calicoes in morning windows who dream of growing wings and snatching in midair the blackbirds that tease them. Blue girls who blush at old love letters, from prisoners in bare ventricles who mark their days on the walls. Your heart, the apartment complex, the impassioned fist keeping you awake, a peony, a cracked teacup, grenade, cardinal, apple, seashell, seed that loves to split.
Some days seem to follow a theme at the flower shop; It will be uncanny how many red-handed infidels file through the door with their tails tucked, pouting for consolation. Some days it is a succession of teary eyed families bereft of loved ones, stammering, their voices breaking over the condolences I pen onto cards for them. My hands are more steady.
I wonder if it is the stars, the moon's pull, some butterfly effect that eventually leaves them longing at the mouths of flowers to say what they find so difficult.
It's been muddy and wet out, perfect for staying in, which seemed to make last Friday the day for smitten boys who came in steady as the rain, one after another, their faces flushed in afterglow. Two of them grinned when asked to fill out the card, declining "She'll know...she'll know." One kissed my hand and almost floated out the door. And yesterday was in celebration of births, because 9 months ago people were doing all they could to keep warm.
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Date: 2009-10-28 12:55 am (UTC)but for the most part, the standards i set for myself are stupidly high, compared to those i set for others.