Poems from Lipinski
by they I mean, humans.
uttering a gutteral language of pinched air and pitch
tongue rolling words off the tongue, one after the other...
An auctioneers voice says, "Sold! To you sir, these forty chairs."
Impulsive I suppose but so too, food
$11.00 bid and a journey for...
What's that you say?
Hello?
Oh...
I see.
Yes.
Yes of course, and, and, and....
but what is simple and so easy to say,
i will...
It feels like a fog
Moist collection of thoughts
Dripping constantly with some form of idea
Sometimes the clarity is lost
Sometimes the...
Spring, morning days still tempted by a frosty nature
Sentinel clouds bring a whim where one is a drop and the other, a flake
Settling...