Monday, November 26th, 2007
poverty is picturesque 
take a snapshot
with your 499 dollar
digital camera
snap the ragamuffins
woolly with swollen bellies
skin delicate as parchment
eyes like teardrop rubies
photograph the sleepyhead
junkies treading water
in a pitchblack river of crystal light
wynken, blynken & nod
shoot the happy-go-lucky hobos
quaint beneath abstract concrete
overpass, hunger pangs curled
‘round a flask of spare change
beyond the freeway of smoke
& mirrors, landed estate is the carcass
of a lowrider coupé whimsy picked clean
unctuous vultures standing sentry
hardship is photogenic, ponder that
a priori as you download artist
proofs from your state-of-the art
camera phone, your electronic gadgetry
a passport to pity
© j7 2007
Friday, November 23rd, 2007
i have this thing for trees
seems i’ve unknowingly opened
the red box again
witlessly inviting people
and things i don’t want in
it’s not need,
it’s the response.
it’s the prettiness, oh
and instant gratification
and temporary warmth
but what about tomorrow
my lack of steep will distracted
by fantastic tiring intros
crafty niche corner
that begs the light of my eye
the new moons are in
glowing in forbidden reflection
hanging on a rack of sky
still somehow sparkling
winking, and flirting
and you know every time i’ll buy
sit under a beautiful tree
and open the red box again
(c)Seven, 20071123
Wednesday, November 14th, 2007
he’s not for you
though you admire him
over smooth pink glass
of desire for him
under and around
but he’s never quite there
he’s the wrong generation
a millenial
but oh that smile
too easily opens to a mouth
you’d love to taste
instead you get the grit
of haggard optimism
watching monks
who stump for peace
and the loopy sorts of ploys
of everyone else in the virtual
and physical streets
and morbidly riffled knots
in an online forum stomp
smoldering monopolies
and netroots who protest them
then outside in the physical;
an ominous mom
in the park scolds her kids
and still aside from all this
over smooth pink glass
your desire for him
goes under and around
but he’s never quite there
(c)Seven 2007111
Friday, November 9th, 2007
speaking, i daren’t speak.
that’s just about the gist of that.
each word taut, non sequitur.
my lukewarm unrelenting.
dead man walks on down
dead-end street, his sentence
preempts mine. judgment day, murder
of crows, thirteen feet to go
before we maybe, madding.
but soft, outside café effigy
your cigarette ash arcs artlessly.
360º raw, i touch a nerve
reflexively. & therein lies anemic lie,
as sullen & reassuring as evening’s
uneven shadow stirring. i pose
nude, scratch the naked ambition
chafing you labor long
to self-medicate. your novella’s
dedication warns: “in memory
of the great regret
i never had.” & we do.
we rue everything. we rue
nothing. the grit, the scar, the hush.
the bottom line we, too, seduced.
thus, the twinsurvive. we posture
& we attitude. the soundless
- we now know - amps the lonely.
as it should.
yet listening, i listen hard.
to the sighing of the neon night.
to the shush of the revolving door.
i never heard it going.
(c) j7 2007
Tuesday, October 30th, 2007
GoodBye my Baby Bear! Mommy loves you and misses you SO MUCH!
I’m so sorry sweetie! 
http://www.catster.com/cats/186377
Friday, October 26th, 2007
a dozen days of echos
had me by Fireflies 
and the Moon hanging at its lowest
do you know fiercely tender?
i liked your kiss but wondered
if there is a cycle to life
if the best parting gift could be
a choir of halos over tomorrow
blowing up a storm on behalf of memory
dancing up the spine of a sunrise in pink
where everything speaks
flamingo upheaval
(c) Seven, 2006
Thursday, October 18th, 2007
Traffic wakens me with whispering brush strokes
of tires on wet roads, snare-skin hissing,
and I imagine the tears of rain tracing paths on my windows.
Emptiness becomes sorrow again.
Before we ever touched
or imagined touching
there must have been an empty space
|room enough for the contractors
to haul in brick, hammer in rebar
pour the foundations, and raise
another tower to the cloud-traced sky
The streets whisper or howl
They shriek at times
The trains moan
beyond the cemetery in the night
none but clever hobos ride them
My tower rose within my empty heart
and filling my head
The riders in the box-cars hear the saxophone note
of the engine, and attain a vacant grace
their noggins are spacious
from the music of departures without arrivals
My tower remained empty too long
so solid, full and tall in my imagination
The ‘To Let’ sign has been removed
In point of fact, it never rose at all
for want of hands enough to build it
Unreal, it still casts a long shadow
(c) 10/2006
E. Walsh
Tuesday, October 16th, 2007
must i have those freaky eyes
to be famous with you
-do i even want to?
i bet you live in a pretty place
with bodies and minds
and deep blue nights
and some days
I thought i’d like
to be a flower in your vase
instead of one outside
or a meeting in your day
instead of one gone by
but that might bring insomnia
and it might be a mistake
it might turn into Lucifer
or buds frozen wide awake
I’ve lived in places
where it snows in Spring
and thought it best
to keep walking
and flicker a glance
through the neighbor’s window
at the flowers inside
perilously waiting for snow
must i have those freaky eyes
to be famous with you
-do i even want to?
(c) Seven, 20071016
Monday, October 15th, 2007
what’s this love thing after all
730-930 is not your number
it’s the time we are to meet
it’s Time and
terminal gray madness
my body is the enemy
nude is delicate
and my mother is Hercules
funny how I hear your voice
but please confirm your identity
and please confirm mine
a fiery introduction
a sequence of bells
what’s this love thing after all
it’s Time
it’s Time
a mutiny of mine
I am still in different ways
indifferent the way
my body is the enemy
nude is delicate
and my mother is Hercules
you are a sweet distraction
ripples on a plate
and I am mountain steps
girl with the ugly legs
what’s this love thing after all
it’s Time
it’s Time
a mutiny of mine
hey universe
I got to sleep at 6 a.m.
my body is the enemy
slow to awaken
in my imagination
I thought something I heard
was amazing, outpouring
but just not that into you
not that into you
not that into you
(c) Seven, 20071013