You can read soma these lines to your gal, Valentine. I don't mind.

(written in Feb. 2009 on a couch in North Carolina. re-edited right now
a few minutes before midnight.)

JANINE

Here,

a world saturated with good and evil

that old ideas press under an anvil,

the wings fall off backs.

Like ceiling fans whose bolts have melted,

whats left but department store-Icaruses?

when the wings fall off backs

we have no choice but crash, right?

We now envy the privilege of birds

and the curse of butterflies.

The air stagnating is heavy now,

here

under the stars.

I try to make them seem closer

stare at them when they want to appear

draw them near

on a page that only knows

the limits of ink and paper.

World, let yourself be described!

The mating season reminds me

that maybe two is a magic number.

Another one. And another.

Hey! Shipless captain,

somewhere floats a paramour

and when you hit the shore

soon Spring’ll leave the remains to rot

for good,

at least until next year.

The mating season behind the window

in the garden. Even for the racoons
maybe for the possums

and on the other side, mine,

the fusty smell,

the darkness and the mess

and the books.

Published perfections

all lined up on the shelves.

My thoughts be heaved on the back of a wave

sent flying like a carrier pigeon

from the back of this chair

-crazy sails of my boat-

to moments as sweet as they're remote:

A girl whose hair was wet,

leaning against the concrete line,

in the smell of chlorine,

beautiful curious lips.

The shouts and the music

and our young legs…borne higher

for only anchor, my fingers

wrinkled by the water.

World, let yourself be described!

It's too lonely down here without beauty.