A microscopic home.

this is a literary blog. i'm literate so i must have something to say. hopefully.

Sunday, September 03, 2006


On every Sunday
I would wear a robe,
Slightly too short
As I was slightly too tall
And would sing up
To the top of the
Church. My voice
Lilting, slipping
Its way across the
Heads of the parishioners.
The words I would sing
would flow
Thru, but
I did not understand
The definition of
God, but I figured
He made rain.
The tones
Of each verse,
The sleights of hand
, but then I saw all around
me a harmony painted
in kaleidoscopes, tangible
in each one of the swaying,
man woman and child in their
pews and inside each I saw no
need for god.


Mind the bathtub, there are always
Horrors in the skin,
The sink.
Dig them out.

Put them in piles out
Side your door,
To ward off the unknown;
Preventative action

The soil is warm and moist
This time of year
Harvest descends
Like night soon starts too,
Quickly then suddenly,
Then it is afterwards.

And there is nothing
To do but wash,
Watch for infection.


You left me out to dry
Hung me by my limbs
Closeline crucifixed.
I let the breeze push
Me to sleep,
Take over my lungs,
These pins cannot
Keep my tethered near
The ground.
No, I lift up and over
Unsnag my body
From these earthly
Under your wanton ways
I collapse like
Soar over the moving trees.
We are not absolute.
I can see your body
Below, fists
In the air,
Always stretching.


Be in this motion
When motionless
But here I am caught
Between there and

This dining room looks
Wooden chairs
Round table,
I am underneath
Hands flat on tile
Knees ache.

A position of

But what do I have
To say? Oh perchance
To scream forth
From these tiny lungs

Writing this down sounds
Like movement-
The motion of fingers
On time.
A never-ending motion.
This situation
Can and could
Be predetermined.

Though the birds
Cackle and the
Window looks like pane,
How is it that any of this
Is real.


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