Playground of pleasure
you can never remember visiting
yet uncovered
against considerable will
and inconsiderate willingness.
Receipts from guest house camouflage
and trails of bedrooms' lingering perfume
openly and defiantly recite the lettering
for you.
Of all the things you have known and mostly not
the all but silent taste of forgotten generations
pleases you most,
but, somehow, the echo finds its way
to crawl in,
to inflict.
Language is seductive
and so deceitful
for it no longer sketches with blood
but has bowed to the mercy salesman of electronic ink,
held together by dried up,
school boy paste.
Of all the things you have known and mostly not,
of all the places you have journeyed
and never gone,
simple dishonesty
still
cuts
the
deepest
path.
Like the banished child staring through the fence.
Like caressing night staring through the window.
Like sleepless dawn staring through the clock.
Like the sounds of rain without the sounds of them--
Whoever they once were.
Whoever they might now be.
5/06 - Los Angeles
