And Your Line Is...

"Be my love forever?"
No, no good at all. Much too strong.
Besides, she might take it literally.
"Leave me alone?"
No, that's worse. Or maybe better.
It's true sometimes, at least,
so it beats the first one in that respect.
Hmm... "I love you?"
Nope. Generic, and too much.
Sounds desperate.
Plus she'll read too much into it.
What about "I hate you?"
No dice. Much too personal.
She'll think I'm just playing coy.
"You have a fantastic body."
Nopers. Too straightforward.
Too stiff, really.
She'll think I'm
not respecting her intelligence.
(They always like to figure it out for themselves.)
"How do you feel about leather?"
No!
Best to learn the girl's name first,
at least.
Guess it's back to the Gold Standard:
"Hey baby, buy you a drink?"

(Photo credit: "Tracks" from Kendra Miller on Flickr)

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Delicious

Can you taste it?
It's a bit like almond,
a bit like sugar.
Try it with dinner, every night.
It should take away the pain
in a month, or a year.

Can you taste it?
It's yours if you want it,
only if you want it.
Imagine the texture, if you like.
There's always a space to imagine,
always a little something hidden.

Can you taste it?
Hold it to your lips,
just the gentlest, intoxicating pressure.
You don't have to take a bite,
not if you don't want to.
But I think you want to.

Can you taste it?
Does it make your mouth water,
just a little bit?
It's unique, yet familiar somehow.
Just slip away
and let it melt in your mouth.

Can you taste it?
It's so sweet,
prepared with so much care.
What harm can it do?
A bit like almond, a bit like sugar.
Can you taste it?

(Photo credit: "boy meets girl" from frankieleon on Flickr)

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Dream and Nightmare

You were so brave,
just yesterday.
You knew you would live
a thousand years,
and never fear for tomorrow.
Never give in to the fear.
You know well what it covers over,
and you have too many dreams for that.

Sunny dreams of lovely flowers,
gorgeous towers, and spring that shines forever
in a life without an end.
Dark-eyed lovelies with longing eyes,
gentle music all around,
and peace in every heart.
A happy land
where all of life is simple pleasure.

There's no place like that on earth.
It's a cruel world,
with fighting and killing
over nothing and not much.
The truly intelligent thing
would be to have been stillborn.
Living is a nightmare,
and nightmares are cruel at best.

Who doesn't want to walk in dreams,
to spend an hour
wrapped in the joy we've wished for?
Who doesn't love a snatch of dream,
or a precious taste of memory?
Who can resist the siren song
of lovely honey words
and all we wish we were?

Listen here a little while.
Let me peel away the years.
You've worked so hard,
been strong so long,
so rest here a while.
Let me give you peace.
Let me give you calm.
Let me give you dreams.

(Photo credit: "Dream" from Moyan Brenn on Flickr)

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Babel

Brick by brick,
step by step,
day by day,
see them working
far out across the shifting sands.

See them walk out early with the dawn,
laughing anxiously
and scribbling notes no eyes could read.
Faceless, they speak little.
This is no place for human voices.
Here in the baking sunlight,
here in the original void,
here in the place where dream meets stone
and visions wander the earth,
harsh winds dissolve the human voices.

Still it rises, brick by brick.
It will reach heaven someday.
Tacit religion, their unspoken creed.
"A better world for our children," they say.
Sand is a cruel mistress,
now too hard, now too yielding.
Skeletons of failure,
ribs of steel and teeth of stone
stretch out to the hazy horizon.
Rise so high, they know,
and you court your own collapse.
But they are proud.
Better to fall to ruin
than never leave the ground.
It rises brick by brick.

(Photo credit: "Easter trip to Dubai (9 of 102).jpg" from Tue S. Dissing on Flickr)

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For Nobody

You're so lucky.
You're so lucky I bet you have no idea
how impossible you are to please.
You don't know what you want.
You don't need to know what you want.
If you're very intelligent indeed,
you know that you don't know what you want.
You're so infuriating.
You're so infuriating I wish
there was something
(I wish there was anything)
I loved more than pleasing you.

And you know why?
Because there's nothing you hate more
than when I try too hard to please you.
You only like it
when it's as if by accident.
("Oh, I was just on my way
to give these flowers
to somebody else.
But you can have this one."
You'd love that,
although you'd pretend to hate it.
You'd love it so much
you might even slap me.)
Of course when I say "you"
I'm speaking generally.
There's nobody in particular
I've got in mind.
You know very well this is all
just idle speculation,
just like you know
I never engage in any kind of double talk.

You know what I can't stand about you?
I hate the way I care
that you exist.
Not even in the, "Eww,
get it away from me!" way
I care most people exist.
It's weird, it's like
I want to be around you
and make you laugh
and do little things to make you smile.
I want to kiss on you, and touch you,
and whisper in your ear at night.
I want to make things for you
that you can enjoy,
or at least that make you feel things,
and I want you to be happy
I made them for you,
and maybe be impressed that I did a good job
when I do a good job.
I don't want to do that
with most of the people I meet,
so I guess you're kind of special.

But it's no big deal or anything, though.
It's just whatever.
Like if you've got the time,
or if you're into it,
or whatever.
That kind of thing.

(Photo credit: "The power of love (276/365)" from Tim Geers on Flickr)

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Rain

She holds her arms to the sky,
bare arms, and thin.
Water runs down her face uplifted,
the raindrops trace her cheeks
and soak her white dress to the skin.
With eyes shut,
she dances
like grass that bends in the wind.

How long without that voice in her ear,
without that whisper?
She used to call it the voice of God,
fold her hands, and coax it out at night.
Now it's gone silent.
(She was a child, long ago.)
Coax it back with a dance in the rain,
and remember how it sounded...

Thrill of motion, blessed dynamism,
feet and hands and clear clean water.
Rising grass and falling rain,
and in-between free of thought,
free of fear,
free of doubt.
Is this the voice she always knew?
Is this the voice she remembered?

(Photo credit: "GOCCIA000000'Choice' - Scelta d'amore di Marco Musso" on Flickr)

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One Thief to Another

Just a little wire,
some time, some skill,
and a good place to hide.
It's all it takes.
Master one lock,
and no door in the world will be safe.

Now, you're working the same tools,
but remember every job is different.
No two locks are the same.
I don't mean to wax poetic,
but it's almost like
they've got personalities of their own.

It takes finesse, ingenuity,
showmanship, and (most of all)
patience. Never rush.
Every lock was made for opening,
remember that.
It wants you to win.

(Photo credit: "lock" from Eddie Rubeiz on Flickr)

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