speaklady
back to body
bag of wishes in yer red
breast
a moody verb
warmly hatched like a bower
of
light
hair is a frustrated foggy dungeon
yer eyes can't see thru
(her/o)
the relatives gather by the sea to
eat tomatos
tuxed up on top like a wedding
naked on the bottom
stairs
into the sensitive horizon
sure
here yer personality's trapped
within a cripple's
brow
shellac(k)ed icons
framed gloves of a cynic
a comic &
the one who blesses
thee
a nervous book of plummage
turned emergent
yer bottle of fruit downs the hatchet
that you wear inside yer mouth
peroxided railstrapped mugger
rejected by the conjurer
devalued by a trip around the day's events
a summer that never ends
as a summer never begun
eros balleting w/a bull around a round/table
turning like a globe
if i were a statue (atlas)
i would not be shaking my foot
so much
if i were not shaking my foot
so much
i could have been a statue
if i were a moocher
i would act more like a stationary
being
than a foot shaker
easier, i think
to fool
then catch my prey
that way.
steve dalachinsky nyc @ poetry project & @ home
10/26-27/05
