Picture this, two of some kind sitting on the stairs far off in some land and time. Feeding off eyes and lips where words were not so easily swallowed. A moon over the foot note of Columbus' pride. The place where captains failed and mutany was cried. And besides all that there were two who sat alone with each other and passing strangers. buona sera luna fortuna. The songs of all the feelings were moving through embedded dreams and surfaced into melody. And though it was heavenly the silence seemed deadly and back down inside went the dreams to hide. The air it was black with only light from the moon, they walked. Tongue tangled teased and strangled. Sweet and sour sometimes at the same time.

Sixty minutes in slippery speech
having everything to say
but can't speak
wondering your city's streets
fixing on the eyes that
peer into mine
a never ending clock
that ticks forever
in my mind
when I see you there
it lasts,
forever
Try again
I tell myself
try again
and it will
come true...

12.01.02
Oh pull your thoughts up from the the litter. This is the hand of a good game. There's Shamah in the back of your mind, sitting smoking cigarettes and contemplating denial or hopefully, to give him the benefit of the doubt, about his next move. She, the girl in the picture, has been discovering new feelings and sceming new dreams along the way/ is also somber and a bit distant at the subject of you leaving town. But she DOES understand and so does Shamah, so the optimistic, happy feelings and thoughts ARE the real deal and should be used as fuel for the engine soul, in-turn the gears move and progression is in affect.

-Wooden table
candle light
letter stapled,
friend of mine
been a long time
we were on missions and,
exihibitions
our souls weren't defined
drawn too many circles
and crossed too many lines
fools we have been
for women or men.