sometimes flashing lights seem soulful in the window


English Skylight, by dronepop.

I Love You Sweatheart
-- by Thomas Lux

A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,
the next morning driving to work...?
His words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting?
Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before
of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?
And did he call her at work
expecting her to faint with delight
at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?
She will know I love her now,
the world will know my love for her!
A man risked his life to write the world.
Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love
is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb
and dangerous, ignited, blessed--always,
regardless, no exceptions,
always in blazing matters like these: blessed.

Daytime Thoughts and Night-time wishes
-- by Sally Clarke

The sun sinks on another quickly passing day
For some reason they don't concern me
Any more
The quickly passing days
I just long for the nights
And my dreams

Farmer
-- by Gerard McKeown

Sometimes I want to become a farmer.
Not because my ancestors were farmers
And I'm supposed to have it in my blood,
Nor is it because I've lived on a farm
And the experience inspired me.

I don't want to be the sort of farmer
That Heaney talks about in his poems,
A farmer that is at one with the land
And farms not as their job but as their life.

I want to be a farmer like Burroughs.
I would wait out my boredom on my farm
Keep busy with hard work and earn money
And when I leave I would leave my boredom
Lying battered in the soil behind me
With a snapped shovel bloody beside it.

Be Drunk
-- by Charles Baudelaire

You have to be always drunk. That's all there
is to it--it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible
burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to
the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish.
But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a
palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude
of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone,
ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything
that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to
be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk!
On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."