Folly and a chase after the wind

Shouting voices,
heckling laughter
peeling and clinking like pieces of metal.
My mind is full of breezing thoughts
and scents of poppies
and petals
stuck to my hot steering wheel
fried calously by the sun,
discolored, dehydrated
as wine seeping through
my fiberous body.
I am a song,
echhoing,
soundlessly,
winding in knots that
choke me dry--
beating cadences into the air
that stack as skeletal structures
sending me into the air--
high like popping petals...
I want to drink your lips for eloqence and transform into a princess.
I need to drink
--instead--
the challace--
blood-red wine to ink away
baligerance,
my humming interest,
and lull me safe to sleep.

Hope.

Hope may be a thing with wings,
but it is also a rusty dodge intrepid
that starts again
despite its empty tank.

Blowing a Kiss

It has been a while since I've written, and yet, it feels the same. Much like a worn glove remembers the contours of your hand and the ridges of your bones. I drove home from Grand Rapids tonight around midnight, and though it's been a stretch of two years since I was a commuter student, my body remembered the stretch of road with its every blinking light and curve. The night air felt soft on my face with the windows rolled down and the radio off. I like to drive in silence in the dark and to feel the glide of the tires over smooth pavement. The road home fit my senses like a glove, enveloping my hypnotized memory in nostalgia for the incipience of college, causing me to stretch my heart strings across the random spectrum of my Aquinas years. Ah, my youth! How it flits into the past...into the future...Let us--like Chekhov--dream of what life will be like in 200--300 years from now! I hope the night air is still soft and dreams, still fickle.