Making Fossils

Making Fossils

I’m getting old(er)
I choose to leave the corny words in the couch
With the lost change
Hoping they will bring childish delight
To someone else
When they are rediscovered



{Feb 2009}

Late Night Treat

Late night treat

If it doesn’t gush out
It’s not blood
Or true

Is it bloody false?

If it doesn’t kill you
It’s not horrible
Or painful

Is it horribly beautiful?

Can we mince words like meat
And get something no one will eat?

Do words get all sweet and sour in your mind
But taste funny on your tongue?

Is figurative dance an aphrodisiac?
Or an act of defiance
By those who don’t dance, thank you very much.

What does it make me if I’d rather make up words
Than my face?
Rather play with words than drugstore dreams?

Can we sleep on it or
Do you get in your bed while I seem to float above mine
Testing deeper shores of metaphor and rhyme

Reason always seems to arrive
Before turning on my coffee pot in the morning

But then again I can be terribly polite
In my
Caffeinated state

Feed me words for breakfast
And watch me soar