Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I can't read your poem only once
the words were getting naked
the sun was taking off its leaves
crows on branches talking crow
I know what you know,you know
the little endless parades of words
going through the minds of idolaters
but the poem sneaks in like a cat
drinking whiskey from a river of milk
history is a thief in the night ready
for the headlines in a drop of blood
take a shot of reality to the mainline
nothing is as it seems it seems ready
I can't read your poem only once
your lips were as red as the apple
I wanted to kiss your poem on the lips
to french the french to spanish the spanish
but the poem is a derelict speaking nothing
nothing but the truth and something else
we were not looking for the truth or lie
only for that something else that can never die
you were suddenly naked with your clothes on
when you took them off you were draped
in the language of the travelers of time
I can't read the words only the written
on your flesh pots of night bloomers
a thirsty dimension where the words drink wine
and the wine drinks your eyes from your navel
they said you were lose fast and it could not last
but I say it was cast past pale beyond the
I always said it wasn't the words that you used
it was what you said that really mattered
even if you were only a figment of your own
on your own like some total far from home
the jokers on the street thought they were so neat
it wasn't what they said it was only the words they abused

Powerful poem, well constructed.

a thick vinery of meaning
i'm thinking thicket of attraction

you were amused with all the passersby, it was the greeter
on the corner of that main intersection that pointed sly
in all their general directions for no reason at all, the call
to a higher understanding of the moments that just go by
in all the hustle hassle razzle dazzle flim flam flip flop
he even pointed at the cop to let him know too
that he was just a part of the greater picture in the scheme
of things, in the rings of fire we carry around for the hell of it
in the mad dash rat race we dream of cash but it's all a mash
up on the freeway grinding to a slow halt the soft machine

they say it was a sex machine a mean machine but I say
it was green and it was a meaning machine without meaning
the only meaning that means anything is beyond words
to describe it, but it is plane sense that sense is on many planes
in and out is not the same as right and wrong is not the same
as what it is, or what it isn't, it's not above or below, it's like that