The man who sits with his face to the sun

I asked if he had a home, a family.
He replied with a cresent of white
teeth and a proverb
about the heart and its analogy
to home; "They're like fire and smoke."
(Smile) "Today it's lodged
on the 500 block of State."
He only blinked
when asked if he had been
perched on this caving concrete long.
(Smile) Silence slunk between us, froze
like a dead thing gaping up
with glassy eyes. I didn't notice
it had begun to rain. I didn't notice
the way his lank hair hung like a curtain,
slowly closing under the weight
of the rain, or my words. His gothic face
coursed with rivets of water,
drained into the still shining
panel of teeth. He shrugged deeper
into the fold of his wings.
"I would have asked
for something brighter and harder
than your blue eyes."
As I turned towards home, I was still
unsure how I could mistake
him for me.

Forget this poetry
business and bullshit.
Words become stale
and brittle as bread
left on the counter, but
words have been around
a lot longer than a loaf
of rye. I imagine the thick
amber of syllables coating
me and hardening over years,
over centuries and tedious
millennia. I tire of ink
and the clicking of keys,
I'm tired of regurgitating
night after night
the people and faces, plants and places
I digest throughout the day.
What the hell do I care
to share with you anyway,
the things I want to consume?
Paper and ideas are limited
resources.

Blah blah blah... graduation... blah blah blah... future... blah blah blah... lifetime memories... blah blah blah... et cetera.

Evite

I'm so impressed right now, I might throw up. I would only throw up over something truly magnificent. http://www.fengsunchen.com/

Today the world
is only big
enough for two
words to fit into it
: not, yet.