Tuesday, October 10, 2006

I'm grouping the '?' series for ease of reading - let's all celebrate the Ringing of the Bards.

?, #1

she leans across my table, my little sidewalk sally, making
oh's and singing ah's, tapping strangely rhythms, and i cannot
see her eyes, clouded by her wild, hiding in a silly place

and she makes her questions, drawing lines all full up
in magicks, and i can not breathe her rawsome mystery
why am i captured here, all bound and simpled to a boy


?, #2

and you've put me in a strangely place, a place of twist
and tortured angle, a prison unto myself, where i am lone,
where my voice is swallowed, whole entire, and no sound

of comfort gives me whisper, and you've put me in a
darksome cloud, full of bindings, where i am roped as
any wild and maddened thing, and you say that this is


?, #3

and who will hold me, when all my days are pawned away
careless lived, careless given with a rush of whim, when
my hours have been jealoused up, and leave me used and hungered

who will make me whispers, sliding through my loopy days
may be i'm hoarse with all my mutters, sitting through these
nights with paper cups of scotch and coca-cola, may be i'm

dancing in my old and twisty steps, sitting by my window,
singing like a romeo beside your bed, and who will remember
when i've forgotten why you love me, and you've forgotten

how to stay

?, #4

these are my strangely times, full-up with twist, hard in
a darkness all your own, and i'm bound by hours that have
no flow, or have i lost the dawn, loving all too well the night

when i can make my secrets, jolly with ole granny's
whiskey, and there is a window, where i can sit, where
i can magick all my famous potions, maybe throw them

at the moon, or will i lose my breathing, for you have
stolen all the airs, so i can not say your name, and can not
keep you close, you are my failing, and at the last, i may be

undone, cast into a tide that will not turn, these are my
strangely times, here at the end, you thought me champion,
upon a time, before you knew my secrets, or have i

lost the dawn

?, no. 5

there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, tucked into a
corner, tossing flour up on the air, making words that float
and make a chatter that i can not understand, and his face

is hidden by this ghostey clamor, so i can not judge his eyes,
or have his lips been kissing mother, has he brought some
solace to her days, for he must know she's buried deep in

secrets, locks her windows with the failing of her charms, she
has a craft that comes from rare and special creams, she
has an art that speaks to wayward husbands, suitors with

unseemly dreams, or does he make some pact, here in my
kitchen, will he take my coffee for his own, and have his
supper at my table, sing some ditties to blush my mother's

cheek, there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, or am i

simply lost

?, no. 6

there seems to be a man, sitting at my feet, huddled
in my shadow, speaking strangely and breathing in
a way that's backward and can not give him life, can

not give him comfort, and when i move, he does not
leave me, he is not discarded but stays within the grayness
that i abandon, and i think him full enwrapped in mutters,

and i wonder where i'll find some solitude, how i'll
gather myself in sleep, and will he find another shelter
when the sun has lost its sweet intrusion, and my shadow

lost into its hiding, or will he sit, where none can find him
and will i feed him tea and biscuits, will he drink my
coffee, at the dawn before i wake, or am i taken by silly

musings, and at the last, become undone


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