the book went out the window

the book went out the window
and i went running after
you. don't just stand there maurice!
as i write by incandescent light.

i'm in a bind again, beasly.
your voice trails off into the distance...
outside the birds move slowly,
i am leaning forward with my head close to the ground,
studying the minutiae.
there's a girl beneath a tree
industriuosly turning the pages of a large, cloth-bound picture book.
your sweater's on the lawn.
i'm in a bind, again.
don't just stand there.

there's a voice wafting in
an open window. blue
songs are like tattoos....

time passes slowly (and fades away)

i'm waiting to meet you,
sitting on a fence.
it's the hottest part of the day
but there's a slight breeze atop this
small hill overlooking the town below.
i'm not a known fence-sitter,
but i do indulge myself every now and then when there's no one around.

from my precipice i can see all the little buildings
with their little doors, windows,
little parking lots (with little, parked cars) and little occupants.
the air is clear atop my hill, but i can sense the smell of human industry below.

i once saw jung in a flaming chariot,
his hair tousled as if he didn't get much sleep,
his expression grim as if he watched too much CNN.
"hey carl, what's the deal?", i asked.
"jus' waitin' for my friend, man, jus' waitin' for my friend."