Wednesday, April 21, 2010

I lived for an hour.

I suppose you’ll tire of my happiness.

That words heaped atop words will mean less

as they’re read, expressed and said. At some point

that deaf ear gets exposed

that penchant for sadness dusted off.

And you stop.

It’ll be of no worth

to you as the reader, then,

to let on

this awkward semblance of a career

is coming together just fine,

that this loft in the city

has big enough windows to capture

a silent lightning storm and frame it,

that Johnny Hartman is all the noise

I need to sleep

this bed swallowing,

this mind wanting to soak up

this long feeling until dawn

when the rays come back again

when this day is kind enough

to rewind, play back, reinvent

this life that only has the sense

to stop making sense

good morphing to great

shoes traded for feet.

— 4/20/10

1 comment:

fourthirtyam said...

"this life that only has the sense to stop making sense"

wow. thanks for that moment.