Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Living In Clip

I: I am the things I love:
all who are around me, those who surround me:
thoughts of my mother, love of sound; I am the wind, I am the prairie:
wild laughter in my ears: I am the clip.
I am love of heights, I am the sidewalk: stoned, seeing the trail:
think about what I have said:
long gesticulator, paper scratcher, wood carver, roller skater: luck dragon.
The things I am will demonstrate themselves, I will make myself apparent.
I love these things I am: looking; glass of water.
I am seeker, sought, lioness, dusk on tall wheat grass, pavement pounder,
feather bidden with love on both arms: I am the page turning time in my life,
the best I’ll ever be: singer, clean cut, tired in blue jeans.
My heart is true. This is my offer: Offer: the journey home.
I am the things I love:
I am the space between trees,particle of cloud:
I am acorn breath, shoelace coiled in my boot,the lover come home; curious.
I am the things I love: all things standing at the door,
sitting on the steps, running down the street, driving: clip, clip, clip:
passion of Florence, able to be Alice,
particle of light.

II: This is the life I’m living,
the life I’ve chosen, the life I’ve lifted
with both arms above
my head.
I am the woman next door, the crying female Siamese, water bowl in hand, not aware my
fertility is bound by window, mesh screen, sill: instead that I lack instinct; scent.
She is the coil; clip, clip, clip helicopter stomach,
woman-siren of Minneapolis; a scribble
and a knot.
Not I here. Not I in shame. Not I perched in the arms of the twangley tree.
She is ten thousand miles, song of siren: a ghost reading aloud in the park, a
listening-bird. She the tickle.
I the swan, early dusk, turnpike, babe in arms. I the hand, the ear. I the one weighted,
flesh-bound. A crawling black bug seeking stanza, comma, string, hooks to the backs of
mirrors: seeking: the rearranged living room, phantom limbs,
depressions of shag - not
Not moon goddess. Not moon lover. Not ocean swimmer.

Not my lips open, not your lips open.
Not a
Not a bottle of red,
red wine.

This is the life I’m living; not a life spent longing. Not a life spent. The life wishing
urgency, listening to animals, always opening a book: the woman next door, the
sigh-wren, the Siamese at the window.
Ten thousand miles.

III: 10 o’clock
all these people talking eating:
I am a cotton shirt hung out to dry I
am the light, I am the light:

I feel that I am home, we are kissing, holding becoming our own two trees,
holding our own two bodies inside each other:

there’s something about witches who fall in love with
each other, it’s like bloodshock, intoxication, trepidation:
salty on my skin, potent: olive oil, fine scented garlic love:

stays always with the body: will always remember the rum of a
sentence: the days never end my sweet potent lover, potion of
mine you are all over me, up and down my strawberry spine:

the love between witches sends them home; warm blood wrapped arond
their fingers: I see your body walk through the door, I am never without you:

When I cut my hair, when I change the sheets I am touched by your spirit:

these are perfect combinations: the mess if coffee tables, bathtubs,
anything but the way you walk, look, stand at the counter:
don’t look at me, don’t stay out of my bed:
I love you all ways, for all ways giving:
go away if you won’t talk to me: please come sit by me and touch your leg
next to me: turn your glowing self towards me, I miss you.
this is for no one
else but you: for give.
I will back down crying if you come near me again: this takes:
some days the road is laid before me and I know where I’m headed: no
hills to trip me up, so long:
other days you are the road, a task before me, the
length of my hair: I’m not speaking my own language anymore yet my
tongue knows nothing else: only the most beautiful peices of your heart, like poetry
sprung up between my toes: someone should say something sad and breaking to me right
now: something that tells
me I’m not the only one:
tell me you don’t really think I used you.

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