A Poem A Day, Poem #50

what is the poetry in a distance,
the colors and the shapes of your
hours? how does time count your
petals away, measure the meaning
hidden up and down the length
of your legs?

there are answers in your art, but
shhh shadows cover all your kisses
that might, maybe, lie lazily across
your face for teasing the lights with
possibly perfect sex smiles and
sneers

and the slow recognition of the
softest lines bent and sprayed by
your silhouette are something as
quiet and deliberate as a breath
pushing a whisper from a secret

but there are theories that travel
the distance of the heart and the
mysteries you make are as white
and perfect as the hope i hang
on this poem

A Poem A Day, Poem #49

you are still the sweetest stain, suffocating my heart
with your old singing, bouncing breath sounds and
word strings across all my useless dreams and

finally you are somewhere other than an echo
crossing my mind with lay-me-down lips or find-me
fingers, but

eventually these mouths, mindful of missed kisses,
might chew some new stardust, make a softer song,
steal a smaller singing from the music of your moons,
but

you are still a quiet that even thieves can't know, and you
hold a hunger in your hands that feeds endlessly reveries,
and i can not stop your stillness, or escape the simplest,
most basic beautifuls you are, hiding again, always, a stain
of an echo in my heart,

A Poem A Day, Poem #48

i remember laughing in the water with you,
our clothes sticking to our body, wet and warm
with laughter, your hair stuck to your face, and
a memory streams across my mind's window
like a dream of your fingers, clasping my hand
as you lean in for a kiss,
--and it is true that kisses are always softest after
the rain

and i can taste salt now, flavors that trace the
shape of the heart,
--and the heart is a hardest thing to recreate,

but i chase that vision, still, quietly, and when
no one else is listening, i reach with hands washed
by whispers to wish the wisps away from your lips,
--and, yes, kisses and rain are a truest thing

A Poem A Day: Poem #47

she has spilled secrets like stormbursts on this paper,
hidden sentences like kisses that phrases have forgotten,
and the sounds of these secrets sail on subconscious waters,
sing through the sands of this dream, constructing mythic
castles from the quiet carnal whisperings of the water,
asking the night to count how many seasons have past
since last your fingers found my face,
and i have searched the days, page after page, but the
dumbness of everydays are not somedays and the truth
knows no hair like the strings i have erased from your
face,
and love letters get lost in the lazy sound of a larger lullaby,
a melodic pause where a pleasure pierces, carefully, precisely,
some small sound that makes silences from words i never
spoke but have never stopped uttering

A Poem A Day, Poem #46

i've watched you run through flowers,
your hair on fire from the sun, your mouth
hiding a laugh from a kiss, and the face of your
heart turns in for sunny smiling, tucks a picture of this--
this piece of us, in a pocket you hide away for later dreaming,

and the world leaks something like a meaning in
the moment(immeasurable) between your hand
and my hand
and a touch happens, breathes with the echoes
of eternity water and calmly pours somewhere rain,
burying our bodies in the dirt for mud dancing,
pushing delightful daisies all the way to the top of
death, as delicious and sweet as your lips, dappled
that day with sunshine and slowness

iPod Touch

I am writing this on my new iPod touch. Just wantedto see how week it works on the movable type interface.

A Poem A Day, Poem #45

was your love thing a more alive thing than my love thing?
or was your thing a lesser, simpler thing perched delicately
atop floors of flowers, superficially swimming in a slush of
sparkles, a delusion of sweet spots tossed with tired kisses?,

and was my thing a reckless, scared thing twisting in
the trickery of whispers on webs, sick with heart stains,
tumbling through the vertigo of violence in your hair,
trying to catch a better balance from the lovely brutality
of our thing?,

and my thing wanted to grow more things,
and your thing was a dull thing, a playing thing, like
something that melts quickly on the tongue,

but your thing was as sweet and soft a thing as my thing

and i still carry my thing, kept quietly alive, tied to the
head of my heart

A Poem A Day, Poem #44

asked about inspiration, i take a muse breath--
leave little replies all over the air as if crystals of lazy,
streaming snowflakes were sliding streaks of girl
silhouettes all over the strands of these skies--
instead of stuttering some stupid statement colored
by mumbled metaphors and missed kisses

as i walk away from questions, i wonder, even myself,
why your hands hold all the pretty flowers, their curves
and their colors, their fragility,
what do the stars say that make me hear your name at night?
and why is it that the better beauty of the beasts we are
bubbles, always, back to you, inviting friends and fingers
over for poems, lovely lie-down lullabyes that decorate my
heart with meaningful metaphors and bluer moondrops
that shine for paper birds, waking up words full of wanderlust
wings and willow trees

A Poem A Day, Poem #43

the wild strawberries of your kiss still visit me
on days when the sun is full of steam and the body
moves with the slow deliberateness of lips opening
and closing for unconscious kissing,

and the sound of your breathing is a further
articulation of the lazy curl of your hips swaying to
a rhythm of the only dance that matters, our bodies
swinging and sliding down the miles of moons we
have imagined with make-believe hands
(and there are still secrets i carry with me to bed at
night),

but your voice is a place i have lost when it
is quiet and the world teeters on the buzz of wanting
to stack a string of wonderfuls on the stubborn stars
of this slightest swim of sleep,

and the mind waits for better birds to fly with
weightless wings, floating on the feathers of long
done days where every whisper was a meditation
on touching, where the lights were languid and
laying loosely to a dream, unwilling to fade, eventually
going quietly away and distant from reaching with
ripe fingers feeling for stolen strawberries, as sweet
and sad as the summer rain

A Poem A Day, Poem #42

who cares about love poems or lollypops?
who knows anything about the mystery of her hips
or the breath of god?
but when the lights go down and i lie with the
summer sweating all around me,
i skate across those winter skies,
those twinkles of eyes like sparks fighting for shine
and from the air a cool foggy breath shakes my heart
awake, and my pulse stutters and
there is something like a snowy vibration
that sends a smile like a race up my spine

who cares about metaphors or daffodils?
who knows anything about the shape of her shoulder
or the depths of death?
but when i trip about on the winter lights tonight
i wake up the stairs of stars, climbing
the dreams of songs that slip through the fingers
of her hair,
and i hang on until
there is a rush of blood swarming in my sleep
that leaves a trail of snow angels leaping in my
throat, flying in the drink of a wintery kiss

A Poem A Day, Poem #41

something i can not touch about you rises and falls, opens and closes
around my heart, fading in and out of this musical mind i have, collapsing
like a cubist mirror on the river of memory which washes away old hands for
new touches, and though it comes and goes--this song--it can hardly be heard,
(the sound your throat made when it was waking up my name) and though its
mouth speaks and kisses, it can not feed the heart the same leaping, the jumps
and dives in the gut, the slips and slides in the chest, when you used to find
your fingers falling somewhere, anywhere across my body, and though the music
is a meandering watery flow of blurs and shadows, there is a place you still
sing when i stop for a swim in the silent stream of dreams, which allows
for no time, no limits on the landscapes we color when we hide love from
this real world, this weary chase i make, windburned and running to catch
that drink of river you painted on me with the patience of whispers and waterfalls,
all flowing back to here--right here

A Poem A Day, Poem #40

you left me with a wing,
a sprightly thing,
to touch and remember
the weight of your face,
the softness of a smile
waiting to be kissed,
a laughing of hands and
a flight of fingers
that takes years to recite
even with poetry piling up
on a man trampling time away
in search of the tiny truth
you hide when you slide your
body out like some cloud succumbing
to the blue that birds drink in the
rarefied air of stretching for the stars,
breathlessly reaching for the wonders
that you reflect in way-away water

A Poem A Day, Poem #39

we have made colors, earth shades,
floating into space tendrils,
stars have spoken our names

we have swam in the muck of water that surrounds
the planets we have planted with wishes and
kisses

we have laid down to dance, drowned in the
lazy yellow lights of sex streams to watch the
flowers of the stars tumble into storms

and we massaged blooms from our fingers,
stepped into pasture's paradise with the
stomps of our feet, sinking away in stupefication,
buried in a beautiful bath of black holes
where nothing is hidden
and everything exists

A Poem A Day, Poem #38

there are pictures i hide, movies that slide like secret
lights when i lie in bed, waiting to sleep, swimming in
and out of the shine of some memory, some mouthful
of kiss, a word spoken but not heard because voices
--beautiful vibrations of throat waters--are the first to fade
into the distance of years, and yesterday you were telling
me things about tomorrows and forever, and today you are
a quiet movement in my mind, a spot of silent light fading
into a different dream where voices matter half as much as
their mumbled meaning

A Poem A Day, Poem #37

there is a hollow house in my chest that jumps and dives,
shouts and whispers, when you tilt your head that way you
do when i am looking too close, trying to reach you with
eyes not hands

there are ships that sink in my gut, drown in delirium,
when your legs are curled under your body or shift
into a crossing thing where the greatest aesthetician
would fear to tread

there are stories swimming in my mind, floating and falling
on every curl you have traced with touching fingers, every
kiss you have cut with ache-splitting lips, and you have ignited
these gray mattered walls into a glassful of dreams
and i will sip this sleep until i'm dead

Liberals are More Flexible Thinkers

How could this possibly surprise anyone?

In a study likely to raise the hackles of some conservatives, psychologist David Amodio and others found that a specific region of the brain's cortex is more sensitive in people who consider themselves liberals than in self-declared conservatives.

The brain region in question helps people shift gears when their usual response would be inappropriate, supporting the notion that liberals are more flexible in their thinking.

Short rundown of the study: Conservatives are lazy thinkers.

Update:
Also, think about this as the meidia salivates over Patraeus' report to Congress today:

Using electroencephalographs, which measure neuronal impulses, the researchers examined activity in a part of the brain -- the anterior cingulate cortex -- that is strongly linked with the self-regulatory process of conflict monitoring.

The match-up was unmistakable: respondents who had described themselves as liberals showed "significantly greater conflict-related neural activity" when the hypothetical situation called for an unscheduled break in routine.

Conservatives, however, were less flexible, refusing to deviate from old habits "despite signals that this ... should be changed."

A Poem A Day, Poem #36

you are a sputtering, a stuttering starlight
that floats from a dissolve in my heart,
holding tight to a scurry of sleepy feet forgetting,
hiding in the empty holes of a dream scattering
to catch a flurry of lights from this moon,
this girl smiling,
you, shining tiny spatters from shadows
for one more shush,

and your hair is exactly the way
i remember it(feels like a time,
smells like a place), weightless
in my hands, effortlessly descending
into breathing

A Poem A Day, Poem #35

there is a sunbath
resting on her knees
a shine that swims from light
and shadow in the dappled
colors of white and black from
the tree's breathing above her
and the sky is watching with
one giant blue eye and somewhere
there is something more beautiful
than this
somewhere there must be a thing
more mesmerizing than that light
--that knee--
but i'll never care to know it

A Poem A Day, Poem #34

you are a water that whispers(half-awake where
the moonlight makes mischief of hands), like a thing
that lies across a dream, washing the waves from
the slippery stars of sleep, where the birds crawl
across your body, tumble down the tired tides of
your hair,
and i hide in this sleep to watch your rivers--
to hear your cunning current flowing ever so
fully into my throat, cascading like so many
mouthfuls of the rain, like a kiss left for
morning drinking, dripping little wet remember-
puddles to trip on all the dry, dumb day

A Poem A Day, Poem #33

you are in the street, dancing
in the wet street, dancing
dancing in the wet street, soaked
to the bone with rain and smiles

and a kiss falls from a yell in my
throat, tries to reach you in the
static of your shake, in the soft
pelting of your hips

a car comes into the street, humming
in the wet street, humming
humming in the wet street, shining
on a dancer with lights and puddles

Hybrids As Generators

Just one more reason to buy a hybrid.

When Hurricane Frances ripped through Gainesville, Fla., in 2004, Christopher Swinney, an anesthesiologist, was without electricity for a week. A few weeks ago, Dr. Swinney lost power again, but this time he was ready.

He plugged his Toyota Prius into the backup uninterruptible power supply unit in his house and soon the refrigerator was humming and the lights were back on. "It was running everything in the house except the central air-conditioning," Dr. Swinney said.

A Poem A Day, Poem #32

the day is lovely and the sun--
you are bright like silverfish, the water
dripping from your hand--cold--across my back
like shivering on the rocks, waiting,
listening for the birds--the sound of
some little singing, some little storm
dangling on the horizon of this heart
standing on the precipice of youth,
smelling that summer water flow by
me, reflecting that place you play when
i am resting and the quiet earth breathes
all around me
--the day is lovely and the sun

Election 2008 Begins

Labor Day means election season really begins. Everything up to this point has been little more than window dressing.

Some qustions to consider:

How fast will Fred Thompson's campaign sink like a stone?

How long before Romney surpasses Guiliani as odds-on favorite for the republican nomination?

Can Obama successfully deflect the lack of experience meme?

Can anyone make the 'she's too polarizing to be president' argument stick to Hillary?

Can Edwards prove that union support still means something in the democratic primary?

And on the senate side:

Does Mark Warner give up a possible VP slot for the Virginia senate seat that John Warner is vacating?

How long before the republicans go negative on Tim Johnson(D-SD), who is making remarkable progress after a serious brain injury?

Is it possible for democrats to make Larry Craig's seat in blood red Idaho competitive?

A Poem A Day, Poem #31

these fearful fingers fidget and drum this sleepy forgetting
with frustrating turns and tumbles for more sleepless
heartbreaths left to catch in your quiet sleeptaking where
dreams must be better than great gulps of gooey nostalgia,
like that time our hands, your hand and my hand, touched
a song that slipped out from a memory reflection and lit
life afire with quietly happinesses bursting something like
every and each single sliver of skin
and all those sensational stupid smiles and great gorgeous
giggles we have tucked away for later-keeping are now
hitting a wall of someone else's silence,
and i reach for diving memories, grasp for clues of kisses,
descend deeper into your dreams, hold onto great heaping
handfuls of my heart, sleeping on the edge of the cliffs of
your castles, grip tight with these tired fingers to the clouds
to catch sight of your spinning