you got what you did not ask for

Since I'm a Libra and I believe in a functional semblance of balance, I am going to post something noisy to drown out all the silence going on around here.
I was recently having a conversation with someone (I guess you know who you are) whilst reading the exciting new HL series "I Thought of Emily."
It all seems kind of feeble and dorky, in theory, to be the sort of person whose ultimate demonstration of emotional "movement" would be to sit down and write poetry. And as much as I really truly believe that this is...actually...sort of pathetic... I have to shamefully admit that there are those times when I am sitting at a desk with a thousand succinct thoughts in my head and a craving to put it down somewhere fast. Not because I think they're good thoughts that I'd hate to forget, but because I think the thoughts are maddening and I'd be better off without them. So they go on paper. Which, I guess, in any natural sequence of reasoning, would render the poetry worthless, and something that everyone would be better off without.
It's funny though, that I'm never able to write focused poetry about actual people or events. This is probably a byproduct of my haphazard brain. I'm actually quite incapable of looking at an event or a person from one angle or as one thing, once I've started to romanticize about them. I can never make a definite decision about someone; or, even if I think it is definite at the time, my mind is always very easily changed.
Consequently, I read some stuff that I scribbled a year ago, a month ago, a week ago, and wonder what it was that could've made me feel that way, and why I seem to be so conflicted.
Lord help us all, because here it comes.

take me back with you
build us a tent
inside an empty cloudburst
a rainwater loveboat

to drift like Aristotle in a sand box
to be together in a raindrop that rolls
down a lazy eyebrow
to hold me up and lift my hand

to look at pages together
to see stars in white sheets
castles in cardboard
and dreams that dropped out of the biggest things into the smallest hands

you are to me
a gospel of few words
a short, succulent
feeling

the tip of my fingers and the tip of my tongue
and too many poems rolled into one

take me back with you
build us a road
that wanders and waves
like children going home
-2008/1/12