Trying to find language for how
I may be feeling,
writing on rotting foolscap:
I’m on my back, my feet are on the ceiling.
writing on rotting foolscap:
I’m on my back, my feet are on the ceiling.
I’m swaying and I’m reeling
to these sexy yoga-dance moves on video,
trying to find language to say what I may be feeling;
to these sexy yoga-dance moves on video,
trying to find language to say what I may be feeling;
and not denying that there’s double-dealing
behind my tacky phrases,
scrawled on my own back, with my feet treading the ceiling.
behind my tacky phrases,
scrawled on my own back, with my feet treading the ceiling.
Whatever sets the kettle
boiling,
what comes to me mayhap—
I, uh, think I may be dancing on the ceiling.
what comes to me mayhap—
I, uh, think I may be dancing on the ceiling.
Stealing, stealing—my dearest friend, aren't we tasting
terroir-terror on every point of the map,
the deep language for how we may be feeling;
terroir-terror on every point of the map,
the deep language for how we may be feeling;
hearing but not heeding
the characters who throw scraps
to dogs—they feed us
crap, with our lives receding,the characters who throw scraps
to dogs—they feed us
but not quite ready to hear taps—
trying to find language for how we may be feeling,
leaving dirty footprints on the ceiling.
