vpoet, re:

        i can’t force what isn’t there.        you get hernias that way.
give your breath       your stutter-lunged grasp of wind                        to me.
these lips of yours play,                         stuck on mine                                     in motion moved from limb to pool to your                                                                                   eyes,                          your eyes, wide-shocked with mine behind, in tow–                          what glimpse of you, this, your shiver-shake of hold,                                                                                          gives–                                                        how, slow, in rise,                                                                       in                                                              ten-folding                                                                    of these                                                                 sweats,                                                                  i wish to give                                                            you more in return of gifts—
bitten,         lie amongst my arms and know me,                                           your breath                                           on drum                                           laid silently                                           ’neath your skin:                                           all i’ve come to be,                                           yours,                                           the comforting                                           sigh repeated                                &n
bsp;          with lungs’                                           quiet rise                                           and short’n’d push–how your throat                      calls to me                                     for lips’ security                                                and i, a                                                weaker                                                guard in these,                                                your                                                eyes, your wrap, your fingers,                                                find no use to stay from answering.by close of finders, i’ve come to findthis calm in movement internalized,this breeze of thought lapping at lipsto widen and to loosen them, fullwithin your knowledge of this universe,Ours;
a knowing of your blush through nudge slownto mapping draws in trick of nerve,a play on tick’ to lick of pore;and in this, our capsuled star let bake,a drowning of one another grows in breathing, more,                                            with give of you                                             and of me take’.

the wolf, witheyes raised:staring, guides the gift’d                in glance of grave                 as                  devil of History;      breaking light in eye of forest,     mane bears but symbol      in respect to Shadow’s fortune,       Fate, the Following;          yet Wolf, with           throat raised:open,            falls sense, in weight,             to pit of torso,              crowning ‘lids               in cast of gold marred-faux;               gift’d, let flush go fears of Follower;                as oakened-oars on fall                 Converse with trail of them in Thought;                    yet Wolf, [...]

despite this knowledge now ingrained,that the world will spin until it stopsnot when you’re afflicted or strained,i find it hard to process heras anything other thana meteor:striking fancy until breaking through my atmosphere–how can i force her ‘way when i can’t reach to her?this silly game of revolutions revolving round the subject frightens me.can she [...]

i have not written a ‘good poem’, one that makes sense beyond the words read or spoken. the reason for not having written a ‘good poem’ is not the inability to do so, but merely the inconsistency of thought toward, and the amount of time spent on, any given piece. to say i [...]

on slashdot, there’s an interesting article about rollable ‘paper’ displays, which are currently monochrome, but will eventually be color. could you imagine, sitting out on the porch with the morning paper (about the size of an 8×11 notebook, but as thick as the cover for stability) in your hand, your other adjusting your glasses. [...]

the    hopper of grass     finds          solace           in air      though knows       not where        to be going or         how long one may take          in getting there.

while  one      may see             understand              comprehend               feel                know                      the motion,  an other      may know             feel              comprehend               understand                see                      the object;   which    may find     both?
   perhaps    one and[/or] other     may spawn      both       through showing                   teaching                    allowing for                     reaching toward                      helping                                another.