the room's a scattered memory. i spin your records. sort your mail. search for you in strands of hair. heavy handed. my limbs are shaky. hold me in this placeless time. return with treasures ripe and wise. sand on your toes. sand on the sheets. your letters speak of narrow streets. cobblestone and penny wine. tripping painters and tragic tales. ancient temples through silver valleys where water falls from heaven. rolling greens and mountains forever. i read on into the jungle. jezebel tent. men greeting women. shirtless and wet. tangled skies above. tender skies below. shoulders shudder on slow walks with strangers. waist deep in snow. i read your letters far too slow. show me signs of coming home. of loving still. fill my mind with secret lines. share yourself in a phrase or two. wrap yourself in the finest wool until the sun stands still. mount your magic mare and glide. over jails and long stone walls. lay the night away in gowns that flutter and flow. will you see me when your lights are low. see me in the tavern clouds. in the twisted jokes of fellow clowns. have you seen me in the frowning sky. smiling at thoughts of you and me. hey babe. i need your words. set my better instincts free. your reticence is ripping me apart. tell me not lose my grip. send me beads of irish rain. send me grains of spanish soil. return to me when roan leaves crumble. when the wind is light to rustle. blue sky ahead melts away to purple. streetlights hum and flicker. down comes the night. heat pipes chuckle. window panes cackle. sacrifice is everywhere. the air about me clings like dust. heavy motes across my chest. fall dismays the summer. winter winds enthrall. captivated lovers stumble through it all. can you see me in the circling pounding of infidelity. gently chipping away at loneliness. it doesn't come easy. it's rough on the heart. trying to be the man of your dreams. we're walking around blind. our compass is dated. i was trying to be a lion just the other day. i said she's wonderful. but i don't need her. i don't need anyone completing me. i belong alone. seven weeks gone. still no letter. i've grown accustomed to the weather.
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The Aspiring Writer 10.2: Michael Kazepis:
by Chris Lambert
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