the first thing i do is throw words into cyberspace
the start
like a knife through butter
the continuation of the start
sometimes painstakingly hard
that is
a rhyme and a tendency to over-share
a squirrel outside our kitchen window
bird shit on my car
i’ve never been a bird person
why would anyone be
little fuckers
the ridiculousness that is my yogi tea phrase
amuses me
multicolored yarn is waiting in my drawer
ready to be stitched into cut fabric
it’s mustaches and glasses and bunnies and hearts
and fountains and houses
and words that are offensive to some
and to some
not so much
i overhear a conversation
prick-eared but my hearing is very well
if i want it to be
the old lady with the cane
who lives next door
barks at the mailman
la di da
i play my songs loudly
and dance through the room
while lip-synching mutely to the lyrics
of lol which is
a different thing to me
they have no lady parts
oh the irony
48 is the degree of latitude
and when i turn the corner
a scent of smoke and curry and
kebab awaits me
on the ground remnants of puke
and traces of feces
this time not from birds
and when i can’t think of anything else
i think of you and your ways
and how you smelled of cigarettes and curd soap
you would whistle that tom petty song i’ve come to love
or throw a clandestine glance at me and my camera
that nobody noticed but us
you wrote lyrics on my hands
and in my books my brain my heart
and i think of your heart beating
and of me feeling its beat
as we lay back to back
reminiscing about all the pre-kiss instants
we may have enjoyed a wee bit more
than the kisses themselves
