Nel manoscritto dell'amore il bacio รจ la firma.
-Anonimo
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A Lullaby
Paint me in blues, reds, and purples, like a Tom Waits song of disproportionate beauty and fear, illiterate and shivering, naked, stark, and resplendent.
Picture me in the sunset, escaping just beyond the horizon line, disappearing from your line of sight into memory.
Remember me standing on bare tiptoes, reaching for the last orange on the tree, arms outstretched like branches crying for the clouds.
See me everywhere and nowhere at all, blooming like late summer goldenrod between rows of weeping sunflowers, bowed down to the first days of the Fall.
Anticipate the rain and feel like spring, waiting for your mother's hand to pull the leaves down around your sleeping eyes.
Lend me your boat for crossing the river and forgive its incorrigible darkness as you push me away.
Go home and listen to the sounds the sun makes as it bulges its belly into the corners of your room, popping like toy fireworks on pavement.
Blame it on disposition, constitution, intuition--anything but chance. Because what is whim without desire? What takes the place of anything once it's gone?
Wake up where you fell asleep and take the love from your back pocket. Flip to the last page and onto it pen: A voice made for lullabies will never speak many words.
Picture me in the sunset, escaping just beyond the horizon line, disappearing from your line of sight into memory.
Remember me standing on bare tiptoes, reaching for the last orange on the tree, arms outstretched like branches crying for the clouds.
See me everywhere and nowhere at all, blooming like late summer goldenrod between rows of weeping sunflowers, bowed down to the first days of the Fall.
Anticipate the rain and feel like spring, waiting for your mother's hand to pull the leaves down around your sleeping eyes.
Lend me your boat for crossing the river and forgive its incorrigible darkness as you push me away.
Go home and listen to the sounds the sun makes as it bulges its belly into the corners of your room, popping like toy fireworks on pavement.
Blame it on disposition, constitution, intuition--anything but chance. Because what is whim without desire? What takes the place of anything once it's gone?
Wake up where you fell asleep and take the love from your back pocket. Flip to the last page and onto it pen: A voice made for lullabies will never speak many words.
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