My tree branch bends no more at wind’s wish but strikes out at a toothpick destiny.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eros mocks the new trends. Re-living past fires. The labor of trying to lose (your name). Forgo all future plans. Stall the halo-making. Every hero is at stake.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bullets taste like fresh kisses // September folly // you cast your stone through the window of parked car on airport road seeming quite cold tonight, slumber under timber roofs and lead cotton blankets attempting to recover comfort in the bones of your arms // frozen locks are thawed by the wave of your tin foil scepter // door jambs are cobwebbed and not easily fixed in the corner the calendar pages pile up as first monument of the new land discovered – your son’s south pole, your lover’s lost longitude // co-ordinate the attacks, corner off your foes, face what handshakes you can to get the Document signed so the city can be rebuilt to plan.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I believe in favorite colors. Schemes second to none. Weather walls of rooms or eyes what pigment pales in this light. The scent of waxed kitchen floors, the wind flown in on weekends carries boredom on its splintered wings. Some things seem so seamless, the discovery of a new color no one has ever known. And the story goes, “the garden grows but the weeds rise up just the same.” Here’s the idea, 1,000 to 1 that your harvest ends before it begins. The violence in numbers, the hand that heaven hangs its coat on. I am all mouth.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
More fearful leaps off high desert peaks, from sunlight that boils quicksand slow seas. There is no joke about sand blasted eyes of old women on rocky knees. The gods of this steam that rises off all morning things, they bake their bread from our sleep, our own muscles that the rocky cliffs seek to break – there is no hero like the tepid moisture of your mouth when the wind dies down and night cools our necks. Grrr.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They have these stories of downed fighter pilots and wild dogs in the jungle, the Islanders do. They’re mythic to them. Wild tales of invading armies clad in treebark and caked mud. It’s enough that it exists, I guess. So far from what I’m told reality is. I saw a picture of my grandfather, sweat on brow, his physical existence sharing moisture with this world. I do wonder where those water molecules are right now. In the mouth of a wild dog in a jungle somewhere? Hitting side of boat on ocean?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You’ll hate this. Ducks down, a hurried shelf of books and an armchair of almost perfect form, for all my future amber evenings of rest and reflection, family near and far, but Well and True. There’s no smell like dusk light on picnic tables and a done day. Where the fuck is the end of this story? I checked the index but pages missed. It happened fast, was over quick. Lost itself in history’s bindings. I bet you the gods of wooden trees have kept terrible secrets from paper users. There’s poison in selected words no ink can cure. The forest fire of us all, desert sky ate man alive. Hey hey.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Showed arms length to angels who gasped and shared their secret of hands, of creating and making this out of that and when the access was made no one could pass it without putting in a hand to make trumpets blare the sweet sound of slaughter of hearts and minds of millions sheltered in leather hands clapping applause laugh track flashing without pause.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Voyeurs of standard pillowcases, you shall never taste this feast of fable. In this pocket our portrait of selves, though gloomy at times, radiant core all ways, like planet spinning (spun) wild marble and strange truths. These, our lives; inside this house; on this street; today.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now my hands seek a stillness – a frail belief in systems – you’re only as old as your tongue tells – atoms change at every turn so souls string like shoes on wire – letters found in hurried heaps hidden – shields the whites of your eyes from fists fired from dark sleeves, stitching letting loose the lips – you’ll see it soon enough sagging there in surprise – fast to faster to fake your true speed. There’s no getting from here to there without standing in front of each enemy, to bear all and chin high, waist deep in that danger, elbows up to trouble, your knees shall hold you up – your imaginary scaffolding holding spine in solid grasp. Look, there goes the worry, look, there goes the fear fleeing fast to faster to fake its true speed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Again, I’m suspect of realizing ideas when I should be working fingers bear of flesh at a stainless steel desk in southeast corner. They located the origin so far inside the Self that they couldn’t find their way out. At gun point all religions failed you and your soul was finally free to cast out in new directions, an unburdened mule on permanent vacation. This cold cobalt stone once struck the skull of St. So and So and ended an actual man. What Plan upheld its flight? Who’s mouth formed the word “Throw!”?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Let us struggle out of bindings – fight as though there is no winning any one thing but some pair of scissors to sever past ties. Look at the ladies dying dining on concrete cake like it’s going out of fashion, their bones turn to dust at the wave of some lord’s hand or other, bejeweled in blood red rubies and gold from ground’s belly. Fences keep the forests forgotten while we sleep with charcoal breath, dreaming that, ha, this land is less than it is meant to be.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The languages we’re making are mouths full of honey/sonnets ode to origins of dilapidated homes where the teevee is always on and the smell of cinnamon pours from kitchen walls. That whole time is missed in its entirety, as if it never happened or if it were a fiction made up to warm worried hearts. So, at last, sleeves are rolled and tasks are commenced – another trial in a long line of – shaping our entire selves into the forms they will take at their deaths, and the mold is already taking.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We concrete the riverbeds so roads shoot back to Rome. We are unevolved. Precision of our hatred, killing hand over fist. Is there nothing left but a pocketful of past with no room for future thrills thrissslsl. Our hair is burned away. Our skin is unremembered. Our blood paints bedroom walls in sister cities. This world unlike any other. Fire for the free. 12 billion shaking hands, shifty eyes and shuttered ears clawing fictionary faces. The East Coast is to blame again. Fault lines advertise an ending. The percussion of our bombing, these beats making souls dance too soon. The west coast is to blame again. Now the ocean comes to claim its home. But this is not about safe sailing or of saving what we can. The empire never ended, just changed its clothes. But hey now, we’re talking ourselves in circles. Forked tongues and foreign maps. We’re now out of ideas and out of time. And now we’re floating, and it’s midnight and the trees are all burned down. The end.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What does it mean to live your life? Sheep and such? Lemmings and cliffs? Or rivers and tides ever changing? Had a dream one night that I possessed unique voice, children laughed and business men burned their bungalos, painting their bodies with pig shit. A glory exists in living unique time. It’s just paper you know, you can’t place it in your mind or memory like this. I saw an old man cutting grass on the outskirts of his lawn. Lemonade. Beating sun. Hum of powerlines. Every inch a mile and every mile worth walking.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We’ll get by with a pack of panicked hands and large well-oiled machines whirring out uncontrollable mysteries. Then we’re up on the hill clawing at roots to spare us from the fall, grass staining elbows and wrists and roofs of mouths glisten in our scream. You never talk about the backyard gardens where tomatoes failed to seed – your father looking over you with eyes like practiced thief. Give back my beating heart, my thumping chest, or I’m destroying the machines.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How our spirits grew darker in leaps even on the most dazzling of days like old clock from before the big Two One, unwound and under kept, but still ticking somehow. Every heart in this town was tugged together and all the bull shit stopped. I loved the peach scent your death gave off and how the glass in the windows shown truly liquid. Wicker chairs smashed on old men laughing, wine spilled on wood floor. These are not my thoughts, a terrified monkey, he’s gone crazy like from wasting away on that time thing. Teeth never bit so hard, bones baked in fearsome furnaces under our southernmost poles. You’re on your honor hour.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Shotgun houses. Noisy streets. Roanoke. Kissing cold plaster walls. One hundred brackets for a house. Picturesque molds to mass produce perfect timing. One made possible the other. Identify the style. Society’s speed of travel. We talk about timelines, not snapshots of now. A timeframe’s decrease. Penpal shot dead on cluttered coast. This is THE perfect time to talk about it. The concept and the ability of gravestone paneling. World barely held in check. Eyes like starving beast. Monkey in suit. Relocate satellite communities. Show with moving pictures. Shake the southern states. 500 rooms to house them all.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All tin can troubles strung together on abandoned shoelaces like so much sweat in a 24 hour shirt. Our leaders read bones to divine secret messages to make profound decisions under eavesdropping astronauts whose response is WIND and WEATHER changes. That moon, there, is a cardboard cut-out and those stars, there, are broken glass which, I do not fail to see, makes this reality a landfill for half-ideas and unrealized dreams. But, the chocolate on your breath could confuse the wisest of us with death.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Billy chewing bones says there’s no place to go where the ash won’t rain down.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I remember the moment you told me (was in late night diner, coffee sans cream, talk of cattle, loss of appetite) “There’s no joy like surviving another day.” At least that’s how I remember it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s a sizeable world when you speak of me – my mouth, my ribs. Salesman quoting scripture to a picture that doesn’t even look like me, pale as paste with my heart on my sleeve, in those days, regardless, to kill for a breath of your sweet, sweet air and your voice saying, “Thank you for saving me.” Yes it murdered me every time and then was no exception. Because you regard the earth with a frown, your body seen as meat seeking to rot, you are unamazed in an amazing world, every ounce a shining bright cluster of verse. Should show you what real Truth sounds like. You’re not trapped any more than you are freed. I’ve a mind to wake you, but no process. Another clock stopped, stitched to this fabric of my life – it’s what I fear. One million trombones. My mouth birthing unwanted frowns. Have you the will to see this through to the end? My body will bear all, mind shredding layers like onion, only no tears and relentless pursuit of Truth.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)