| over a bowl of bitter beans |
unknown
|
I | 1 |
The cars that glide past us, and | 2 |
The conversation: marrow. | 3 |
Nothing, really... nothing really phases me | 4 |
as much as his familiar voice | 5 |
| |
The tone I do like to think is | 6 |
a tone he has chosen solely for me. | 7 |
A vocal symphony handpicked for these | 8 |
aerial conversations. A sonant bouquet. | 9 |
| |
He makes no eye contact, he simply | 10 |
walks and always to a heartbeat rhythm. | 11 |
'But that's what makes you live, y'know? | 12 |
It's... frightening" | 13 |
| |
It lifts the hair on my neck, delicately. | 14 |
Makes way down to my spine & | 15 |
all the while he speaks of the root, | 16 |
the extrication. | 17 |
Selfishness for happiness and other | 18 |
burdening trade offs. | 19 |
| |
In order to blink, divert my attention | 20 |
elsewhere in the universe, I would first have | 21 |
to pry this face out of my peripheral vision. | 22 |
| |
II | 23 |
When he spoke | 24 |
lasciviously of human suffering | 25 |
| |
He bit into language fervidly, | 26 |
maintained alluring rhythm. | 27 |
| |
The sentences never staggared. | 28 |
Always a concrete, candid opinion that | 29 |
I had never tossed to the side alongst the other | 30 |
psuedo intellects who strut their lips on a philosophical catwalk. | 31 |
| |
No, this had structure. This had origin, but | 32 |
maintained unceasing universal understanding. | 33 |
Nothing was ever simply... lost. | 34 |
Nothing carried itself out and across the sky without having | 35 |
sifted through. | 36 |
| |
III | 37 |
Never a condescending slip, | 38 |
Never a shameless nature. | 39 |
Fluid, fluent dialect that | 40 |
painted Steinback's landscapes | 41 |
in the passing air & | 42 |
all I could ever do, | 43 |
is blindly chase | 44 |
after it's fathomless fade | 45 |
(comment on this poem) |