the prestige of conflagaration forgets itself

[wordsaredreams]

tiny spiders tend the fires

in the language of ants

and centipedes

each little leg

a telegram

from an unknown

argentinian writer quoting

ferlinghetti

muttering the drunk

smile of

a forgotten telephone

number

oh, my mouth number than a moth-tamer

in a drugstore doorway

making love to dust

clapping hands

the two doves

hovering

overhead

are a different dream

THOSE

Comments

[crispnite]

sooo beautiful. i miss that beauty in my life.

[wordsaredreams]

it's still there, andrea. choose it.

[lightcitylight]

I'll armchair your face!!!

[wordsaredreams]

:) i love you, sean.

[cleverdiscord]

paul, what happened to late night poems over aim? to talking about moving to the mountains? to everything? i miss you.

chas

[wordsaredreams]

aim is taking a nap and dreaming of the day when i will once again have internet aside from at work, but these late night poems you and i are writing still, though on the backs of eyelids and trash cans with well-worn crayons we crave a little more each day we drive two blocks for the ability to say, "i'm lost." we talk, we move, chas. MOUNTAINS MOVE. you are a mountain that never fails to inspire me. do not miss, for there is no "this" only the blissful little tape hiss of that snake charmer farmland moon soon soon soon is not NOW, it is NOW, is not NOW, it is NOW. you see. one with the two of you and me. bad english. love. night.