cry me a river

cuz i don't have enough water left.



maybe i should drink some more.
water.



took your pipe for a kiss
and the remainder of the smirnov ice.


in the hotel of minarets the passageway
is lined with closed windows & slices
of april light defusing bomb scenes.

if i call you in the morning
the phone just rings and rings.
even the answering machine sleeps.

between the marina and the airport
a bay. on the bay boats
at anchor. one small sloop
rides the wind close to the sound
of drums and the rattles of palm.
a flute of moon blesses the sunset--horns
beget honor, your eyes rise up
to greet me but
only in my sixth sense.
i'm pretty sure it's broken
two times third eyes dyslexia.

cannonical scenery as the night
softly, fresh sheeted, scarred
with the sound of packing bongos
and gathering pollen husks
settles into summer sunk treasuries.

three months i've been pushing
three moths onto the board with nanopins
to keep them alive. you , me, potential.
occasionally i see one of them flutter.
are the gods not pleased then
with the offering?