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Date Posted: 21:01:23 01/12/01 Fri
Author: Leisa*) and Dimon
Subject: Shelter

Shelter

I like this mood
coming in, to shelter.
Start the laundry early,
sleep held nothing
but one remembered dream
and a headache.
Walking through a maze
carrying my daughter
to get to the bathroom
near the pool where we
would swim, work out.
So telling, so short.

Read the broken ways
and woes of today's
youth, not quite black
nor Goth, melancholy
in its binding for its
own sake, its own good.

Settle in with daily fix
of ice cream coke float;
nourishment comes
in small miracles,
God given.
Where would we be
without ice cream?
Makes a great lunch.

This room fills fast
with smoke, I chamber
out to release

sad trodden shit
splattered
throughout
wonderland;
electronic highway
to hell
in a handbag
comes to mind.

Shall we stand in with liquid soul,
lie with crowded congregation?
Who's got the master plan?

Should I pray
for a break in
the rain?
Open a window,
let my thoughts
out to mix with
the water.
Take them to the sky,
recycle this mood;
there was no shelter
after all.

Leisa*)


The whole world washes over me,
through blood-shot thoughts
and road-map eyes.
An empire of concrete musings
couldn't defend, would never
shelter from that wet time;
damp cleansing
surging power
quarried sighs
from her window above.

With back against brick,
drenched by scarring rain,
I too wonder about those images
who stride weathered beach.
Tell-tale facial constructs,
bi-polar themes,
ancient words draped over shoulders
Ecclesiastic vision in new age dream.

Part from Mirth
Part from humility
I laugh into my fist
with wonder.
How many times did she see?
How many times has this
forlorn figure watched
as I danced up and down
occipital fluid movement
disturbing eyes that refuse to see?
Was there some small smile,
some small enchanted giggle,
when I oogle, oggle, stick out my tongue?
Does her spirit rise,
watching the madman work,
covered in sunset and sand?

It's crazy, I know,
but somehow I think she might
open up every so often
to watch my exhibitions,
my focused delusions
prance with waving arms
tip-toes;
detestable countenance
blurs those faces,
alter those paths wrought common.

Watch smoke drift out
lace rip-tide with harbor fog,
my legs ache, and I think
motivation, while she exhales art...

Sm.
January 2001

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