the birth of book keeping

lets watch the clouds go grey.
cast out the lure

that made gold into lust-
made you into steal

and the story
is to long

to tell.

I would soften you with a kiss
if it meant confer;

but no one uses wood to make boats
anymore-

because its not practical.
or,

because the noise heard
while licking lips

softens the feel of it-

and the sounds are to loud for
resource.

or because I am a bad kisser.

or its not
what you thought

it should be.

I thought it was nice,
but I like it when it rains.

the drops of water sing,
drown themselves into

a short street melody.

see them halo, falling forward
like sleeping fingers-their flesh

cleans foot hole directives-
their memories

growl,
unwitted in their own mutiny
for they are many,

and can't read

the letters read to them
since the birth of book keeping.

or maybe i'm too self involved
to know

what you need
to feel-

to feel.