Wednesday, January 18, 2006

the windowsill stole my writing career

begin:
it was all hot colors, that was the point.
she was awkward
inside the music, maybe lulled
by too many lures,
which is to say two,
which once was nothing but
now is one too many.

the mirror was a fine example
of a porthole, a portal, opening
the wall to a room
where we were the opposite of ourselves,
our reflections were ourselves, &
that was how everyone could see
how everyone saw themselves.

she wasn't in the mirror,
not really,
because someone always
remains outside to see it
when the interior is not itself.

she was here, in the heat
under a hat with
a ribbon in it, a feather.
horns.

end:
that was when we were saved
by a master of media,
armed with digital projections,
induced optic spasms or lucky charms
or whatever you call
that rainbow spread
of colors at the end
of the iris
spectrum.

from february 2005.

4 little fish:

Blogger monkey 0 swam up to say...

"...two, / which once was nothing / but now is one too many."

and:

"she was here, in the heat / under a hat with / a ribbon it it, a feather. / horns."

yeah.

8:39 PM  
Blogger jenn see swam up to say...

indeed.

the "end" bit doesn't really fit at all but i left there anyway.

maybe it wants to be a haiku...
but i think it has altogether too many syllables.

11:41 PM  
Blogger mysfit swam up to say...

was this one of the letters to your cat?

11:06 AM  
Blogger jenn see swam up to say...

no, haven't written one of those since Livingston Avenue...

1:17 PM  

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