i succumb to her touch to the touch of her words
as they soothe and exude they are
like oil, firm but fluid over my being
her voice is grass growing on some
godforsaken barren land. she was
dishevelled like an old inscription faded
but still standing orange-flecked
a preacher on the stage imploring
telling our story beat on beat.
may i confess it best
the jerking, spitting clarinetting
ripping the strings with feeble
writer's fingers.
sitting on the side with a card
and a four leafed clover
eyes ghostly pale like
the opals she created from
her own mind, her experience.
oh that's better that's better than being
being better than hearing, endearing. please.
oh child come take me,
fill my soul with muzak
and thirst [and hunger] show me
the silken taste of
the spirit of the seventies.
Cantaraville, an up-and-coming literary journal containing three of my older poems and plenty of other neat stuff, is available here for $4.95 - www.cantaraville.com . It's well worth a look, and well, contact me if you want one free of charge, but you'll have to convince me!
"We are committed to the application of reason and science to the understanding of the universe and to the solving of human problems.
We are concerned with securing justice and fairness in society and with eliminating discrimination and intolerance.
We attempt to transcend divisive loyalties based on race, religion, gender, sexual orientation etc, and strive to work together for the common good of humanity.
We want to protect and enhance the Earth, to preserve it for future generations."
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