Its midnight for me when the best things come.
Bus trains through
the living room
startle me I suppose into wakefulness
the summons of closed eyes
are dragging me away through
fields of beautiful lethargy.
A glance in the mirror at midnight
tells you everything you need to know.
Where you have been and
what you have done and
what sort of havoc it has wreaked upon your
bookshelf scars or moles
that tunnel secret pores from the corner
of your nose to the sides
of your mouth.
Six teenagers drove
into the bay last week at midnight
while I painted secret foes.
Two of them died.
I once lived just blocks from there.
Remember that night
the plane crashed near Salty's?
I could just see the wingtips in the
dark and both
blue and orange converged
upon the ghoulish white to bruise it
with sky and streetlight.
I wanted to go down and look closer at
the way the water
replaced the clouds
to lap at the sides of the crumpled bird
but all I could glimpse
was a sliver of downed wing against
I have painted me in blue,
the darkest, richest I have ever used,
and listened to the echoes of Frida Kahlo as I
painted my two separate
eyebrows against my blue skin like
sky on starlight
of pencil dusted canvas.
I've written all my letters to my secret readers,
penning lines to the future and in my head
run movie reels of faces I have
crossed in halls and
grocery stores, post offices, side walks
and amusement parks.
And pick out those who will someday
read my secret correspondences with them
Created: Feb 02, 2010Document Media