11.16.2010

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Cut the motion picture at mid-reel
so that I can swallow the void.
I am hearing sounds coming out

of the angry cat's mouth that I have
never heard before.
A smile simply "seemed."

Suppose we
bind ourselves together
preening the wind into our tiny wings.

I think of you like a song
that is continually upon my lips.
This is not a poem about a film,

this is a film about a poem
promoting its production in textual-form.
You, the sweet satyrian,

vineflowers of my day.
The soundtrack begins like a grunt--
the way one may grimace at a pawn shop:

one's gold-value sopped
by the oppression
of an inflated economy.

Our song is ambient, dear. I move
into a reflection, filling the holes
of every salty stupor.

She's staring holes through me,
sterling pearls hidden in the throat
of the clamped oyster shell--

"Music's only secret is silence"
& the ocean's silence is Music,
or a woman wearing stilettos;

the echoes filling every hallway.
I am illuminatingly observant
when it comes to my surroundings,

like not stepping into puddles
when they reflect a sky
but stepping into them

when they reflect the face
of a person: a splash, an uproar,
sassy ripples ripening one's composition.




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