I wonder where the little boy in me— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
will run to hide his head now
whose warm skirts and tender embrace
will save me now when I can’t go on
I feel so all alone, an empty day
the sky so gray with clouds
love is gone and this emptiness
that’s killing me just won’t go away
I need someone to turn to
someone I can hold and be held by
Rose, I doubt I’ll ever be sorry
for all that I’ve done
but I’ll never like losing you
I don’t understand why I’m so pressed
to do what I do at such costs
treasure, love, escape from my hand
and leave me alone
and I’ll ache for you everyday
I’ll feel, inside of me, all your loss
the empty hole where the little boy waits
and waits… and waits…
gallagher
15 may 78 – long beach
Archive for the ‘Years’ Category
1978-05-15
Monday, May 15th, 19781978-05-17
Wednesday, May 17th, 1978They seem so discreet …— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
each moment from the other
the times we lay loving
and, with sweat glistening skins, pressing
are so far from the moments when we talk
and from the moments we gaze with love
Where are all of these … when we meet
for just a moment … between moments …
that we’ve touched and lost the world
does it matter … when the neon hours
come to claim us?
How can it be so disconnected …
I almost wonder if Pincheon and Vonnegut
are right … time is discontinuous
to those whose eyes
burnt all the veils away
Can deja vu be, perhaps, just other moments
passing us … pressing us
does it matter that we’ve touched
before or after ….
gallagher
17 may 78
1978-05-17
Wednesday, May 17th, 1978I fell into her eyes, as I always do— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
but her level of candor wasn’t as deep.
I love to touch her
and I crave her smiling eyes
but she rarely speaks from her guts
Its considered, its parceled out
sometimes its evasive
and sometimes its just downright
unfelt social politeness
I wonder what she thinks she has to lose
if she spoke her heart now and changed it
in five minutes it would be more real
than this tap-dancing to confusion.
Nothings sure, nothings certain…
so who do we confuse?
perhaps she’s me as I was to Beverly
maybe I’ve something to learn here.
gallagher
may 17, 78