Dripping moons

Dripping moons

there's a tap outside dripping

to the sound of owls

every full moon

I listen and watch too

there's a pail underneath the

tap, holding the water from

escaping it's disgorgement

across the street there's a tree

measuring time's etching of

mountain's contour

when dripping exceeds and

flowing begins I stand up

cross the street and deliver

the water to the tree

there's no end to the dripping

there's no tap without pail

I'll keep the watch!

© 2014, JC

LIP, Landscapes Imagined Privately

LIP, Landscapes Imagined Privately

imagine vectorial definitions raised from hands yanked along malnourished valleys. mud! systematic gear inverted on top of Azorean women, crying the sea - a syndrome no island dares to express. irrationality triggered under snow storms lost to the south of nostalgia - I am a woman! no wonder then, that snow flakes fall too, in Alexandria.

we are spoiling the sand, throwing it away, through universe sink holes, dispersed for our amusement, because we, like umbrellas, do not care, do not figure out the colors, the numbers that make up a dreamed land, trashed in jocular amnesia... the fog shall burn in me until I am ready to listen and speak to the loved rocks of ancient genders. the megalithic beings we touch are an alphabet due as contemplation, it's granular knitting an odyssey of time and structure ready to absorb light, dark, cold, heat and accept, a word we strive in denial; too obtuse.

re-sink the water from the tap, re-ejaculate your wise materialistic thoughts let's have a party then, just the two! I am a woman I know the lexicon of silence how it can build entire cities, so let's sweep the humus of our daily decomposition, just for a few hours, let's be a grain flying miles and merge earth wind and sea in a drop of ecstatic joy, now!

(We'll invite the rest later...)

© 2014, JC