There's something that comes
(through the light I wonder?)
quiet and sudden
that makes it all
cheap and worthless and cold.
the curtains
the curtains...
they weren't always so
ugly, so
desperate
even the precious books
become
colored dominos.
The light didn't change
the bulb burns steady,
it must be my eyes,
I must be tired
there must be a reason
that it's all gone
flat
inedible
hard.
Surfaces are strange,
cobbled and wired shut.
Corners park in the air
rudely
the pink paagne
that stupid pink paagne
its color is revolting.
Who made pink?
It is not God's color,
it is the color of
the strange night
the blear light
the drunken without drinkingness
the breathless air.
I long to be somewhere solid
a cavern
a cavern of legend!
huge and moist and sparkling
crystals or eyes.
crystals or eyes.
I want to feel the cavern enter me
breathe in the eyes and
let them see through my chest
in blurry red.
There, in the cavern, there would be
no pink
only a living grey mystery full of
water and stars
crystals and eyes
and I would crunch
deeper into the world
the eyes in my body leading me down
knowing the way
hands speaking to stone.
Nothing would could turn bleak there
the light comes from the rocks
and doesn't waver, doesn't
betray you in your room, alone,
turning the walls ugly and
the curtains piteous
and even your foot
a godless shade of pink.
3 comments:
SUNBEAMS, MOONRAKERS
When you smiled,
and only guarded stares replied . . .
when you hugged and hoped,
and what you longed for kept
wandering off in its own dreams . . .
when you poured sugar on the wounds,
then stood waiting for sweetness
to return and wash your feet . . .
When you invest in this business
of expectations,
the deal goes one of two ways:
you get what you want,
or you don’t.
Always, it tallies up the boundaries
of where we keep our faith.
Yet when we truly love,
there is no give or get,
no gifts to dog around, or hope for,
no wondering where the bone is —
nothing . . .
but knowing we light up the darkness
somehow, realize our purpose.
Love is here, everywhere,
inviting us to rest in her.
Too bright to see the ashes.
Too busy being a friend
to stop and think about it.
CHURCH BURNS
The blaze eats everything
save the skeleton.
Our fathers pull up and
leap from their cars,
exclamations of grief that
surely God will hear.
Roiling heat repels them,
eyelids gnash, ribs collapse.
The fireman sips morning coffee, gritty scent of wet charcoal, handful of dogtags, Christ exploded on the blackened grass.
The soldier cut down on the beachhead allows the tide to shift his seaweed limbs until sand locks in around him, leaving one arm pointing skyward like the steeple.
hi my deair
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thank u
from gbaril
dakar.parcelles unit6 villa 109
my number call is 221773033410 OR221338356234
my email is gbril100@yahoo.com
my web is http://mohamed-gbril.blogspot.com/
I will lobve heairing from u
thank u
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