looked through old journals...

words I found in my old journals...just recently looked through them again:

9-1-02
We like the idea of white, like
death,
white room neverending.
We are in contrast.
We are alone.
We hear nothing.

We sing songs of the ocean,
songs from the plucked strings
of a violin.

The kite took off,
and we like to control the flight
of its fragile cord, but it
will not be tamed, and large blue
birds will fly alongside
their long beaks pecking
for a bite.

Consumed in our own
veins, the day is through with us.

The noses of black-eyed susans shoot
to the sky sniffing the air--
and they can see
we are all infinite,

like light, that journeys
from here and never stops
(as far as we know)

It began when we were children.



9-7-02
Air is the cut
the clean
the filthy
the Christmas smell

don't make me take your tongue
and wrap it around your throat
for I have words that I've
built like towers

my fingers are fat like
big
crayons

my fountainhead spurts arches
and I live within the vocabulary
of my heart

this is my Scream



More to come, as I discover random words of the past...