some photo art

after a long conversation with a good friend

perhaps oregon winter
is the perfect time
to hide your brain under the covers for a time
and see what happens
when you
see the
sky
again.

lm 1/6/9

in answer

i. 

when you take

 your cock

away

when you        mmmmeeeeeelllllltttt

out of me

there is a place

left there that

                        is the shape of you

                                                            {collapsed star:rules of gravity inapplicable}

that holds the

                        memory

of the

whole of you

and

how

when

you

are as

deep

as you

can

be in

me

                                                                        {youreyesaremyeyswonderousandwesee

                                                                                             thesame[shift]}

there is a place i don’t want to die.

 

 

ii.

in that it is a piece of you

     i can consume

     without mandibles.

 

     i am a cannibal only in that                    [my body devours you}

 

 

 

iii.

when you aren’t here

i can still feel

you in me

it doesn’t

leave

            a glowing pressure

            in my guts

            that makes my breath

            overstartagain.

 

i took part of you with me

{you gave it away with your eyesyourbreathyourflesh}

 

its quite a bit better than a pledge pin.

 

iv.

it is attatched….though through a distant neural pathway….

to

that

mind.

you have there….                                                            [it twirls bright like a carnival]

 

it lets me

crawl in

for a

visit

down the

rabbit hole.

 

                                                                                                                        10/1/08 lm

 

 

 

Blog Virgin

this is officially my first blog.  what a strange word that is...like a character from an old he-man cartoon...

seems like something i should have been doing for awhile if i wasn't such a luddite when it comes to mixing my technology with my journal scratchings.  while my 90 words per minute make composition easier, there is nothing like pen tip to starched paper...or an old naked lunch style typewriter.  

paper and pens have smell.  this computer does not...other than plastic and metal and a slight air of pretension.   buffy fans will no doubt recognize my thinly veiled giles channeling, yet it is true.

if i write poetry in this box, will you hear it the way you do when i hand you a sheet of paper--the way you do when i read it aloud to you?  if my thoughts are clever in my head but not in this box...which wins?  are any aspects of my life interesting enough to be poured over by others for small bites of entertainment?

i do not know.

so that was relatively painful.  first blog.  hymen broken.  blood looks electric...

onward...