Asleep, silent and small

I feel like it's not ok to write a poem about texting like when poets first dared to write of the telephone it must have seemed so modern so shallow so empty.

And then I think

it must be communication 

itself a step removed from the source

the act of conveying a message

about the mechanism of conveying messages

it's all so meta I want to sleep forever

but you know, in a good way

sometimes I think I'll lose my mind

if I have to reply to a text

please for the love of god

call me

call me

let me hear your voice

so I can be silent

and let my lips touch and eyes close

halfway sink into myself

the way I do when I think 

how beautiful this existence

where nothing lasts

and even identical things are not identical

I want to cry how perfect

to feel so small

please for the love of god

let me be small

When I cry

When I cry

I cry from the beautiful

destruction of my life

the tearing down

and tearing down

and disintegration

of what I was

and what I've known.

I cry of what is unique

in this world, of sameness

of ideas gone wild until

there is no sense

in maniacal laughter

in having no breath

the morning after

the scent of death

and ash and river

and pyre

of course the fire

and monkeys.

Monkeys.

I lost the back of my earring

three years ago 

in Kathmandu the power outage

blinded me

and I banged the side of my head

on the doorway and I heard it, 

the ping ping ping

of my earring

bouncing across the tile until

it disappeared into the drain

and I smiled, knowing

I'd touch the place

where it should be

the beautiful destruction

here with me

Time Out

Sometimes my love for you 

wants nothing to do with you

I'd rather sit here with it

and have a love affair with my love

Waves of 5/4 time spill over

crowded voices, distilled

a dry martini, chill

it's 1959

And people are trying to sleep across the street

while images of earth are transmitted from space

It gets really confusing, looking out, looking in

between hands pressed together, Take Five

from http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2015/05/mag-269.html

Things aren't what they were and that's how it should be

Today I heard someone say
Oh, fiddle
And I fell in love
with everything that is wrong
about being on the verge of losing
a generation