his hair spoke the language of wind whipping over his ears falling onto a furrowed forehead an ocean of air rushes and gathers against gravity pushing its weight against the presence of his salt and light bone and blood
wish me well I’m in a pattern of landing hard in this balloon filled with lead while feeling dark all over in the middle of the day when I know the eyes of a mannequin has a soul and a plastic heart truer than some that I know
rain I got crying wet onto me diamond drops brightened by street lights making the worst appear washed and clean while puddles reflect neon’s as passing footsteps make busy waves disturbing what weeps and gathers from the under surface of heaven to the streets where I walk
eyes with work a wall clock without mercy typewriter language paper thick with ink corner offices glass doors with names water tank and paper cups fluorescent lights no one notices the hum high heels hair spray jackets and ties felt hats everyone smokes see you tomorrow
we are water within a great river singular not yet seen we move in flocks and herds down roads climbing stairs to doors unfamiliar within a few there is a calling a message scrawled on the heart of a gift yet used we are a great rush of sound over … More RUNNING THE RACE
the dogs of night get a new growl when backdoor clubs fill with evening voices dancers sway rhythmically within clouds of smoke lipstick numbers appear on napkins when approving eyes catch a glance yesterdays salted wounds disappear as morning stretches over empty streets
there’s an opportunity of attitude to go the other way avoiding the lines to immediately impose on something to believe in without striving receiving the interest of everything your out of becoming more than anybody not just an everybody leaving the rough road behind
spider stars high above suspended glory drawing my eyes to swim up within cool clean air receiving forgiveness as everything opens up and moonlight falls back onto my face I realize I am a hermit visitor within a moving universe
we awake under rumpled sheets of thoughts the prison of two ideas lines dissolve between dreams and the mystery of fragmented images remembering corner shadows and glimpses of the lost and parts of what is never found as we rise from bed becoming the servant to the master of day
the roar of blood keeps the skin from sleeping while spirits speak the language of awake and night dreams are absorbed into the flash of neon messages directly from the mouths of angels speaking of the everlasting though even they fail to fully understand while half notes and unanswered prayers drip like a … More AWAKE
Roger Singer 