In writing on 02.08.10 at 03:40:45 PM sometimes i can convince myself
i don’t need more than this,
and feel as guilty as a stare over
the clouds slipping by the
spires.
sometimes i can convince myself
that success at things that
don’t matter make up
for the failure at things
that do.
sometimes i can convince myself
that repetition is the perfect
constant for long division
like chalkboards explaining
the time lapsed from
our invention.
sometimes i can convince myself
that inspiration isn’t necessary,
and reward needs adjustment,
sometimes i can forget what
potential feels like
and slip back inside that
old suit of skin.
In writing on 02.07.10 at 10:56:00 PM write me the letter
with the stars ordered
into the list of how
you could be in my arms
if only your timing was
right and mine was a
little more lithe.
write me the letter
with the capital letters
lessened to show the movement
across the white page lined
in your blue and auburn and
porcelain skin as you remind
yourself that you have carried
that broken heart too far
to let go of it now.
write me the letter
and tear yourself away from
your commitment like a ship
on the rocks of intervention
and don’t let yourself
forget every second you sat
and thought under the willow
next to the house that your parents
sold when you were five.
write me the letter
and forget every excuse
you tell yourself so that each
person and moment and second
and destination and choice
and notion and crush and love
and comfort and promise and
reach inside your mind is
the same even though
you know that there
are some substitutions
that will never justify
exactly why it is
us you think of
in the night.
In writing on 02.07.10 at 10:45:43 PM i miss driving up your back road
up to the top of that see forever
lane where the eagles dive
and circle and build nests in
trees wide with age and sturdy
with memory.
swooping along the old growth
of yellow and white and pavement
laid by the hands of millmen
in forgotten towns ago,
twisting and turning through the
forest hills as i accelerate and you
lay your hand against my leg
and stare off into the moss
as the engine shifts and drops
to climb up through the fog
split apart by the three-fifty-one
big block built in the antithesis
of the rain we watch drip off
the blades pushing the night
out of our way.
i miss driving along your back roads
and the transistor radio taped to the
dash playing the songs meant for us
only through accident and the timing
of the pistons meant for us only
through intention,
and the glass rolled down so we
can feel the ocean breeze high
above the rights pointing with black
and yellow and green and white reflecting
the directions that are
planned
for you
and
for me.
In writing on 02.05.10 at 01:11:06 PM my writing is wrong,
or bad,
this i know and accept
every time i step away
from the letters written
in second hand cursive
next to the colons, and commas
and misplaced participles
of verbs and nouns
of subjects lost in
the predication of rushing
the revisionism;
but the truth in the relativity of
language dictates that as each
character drawn by a practiced hand
is left in the surf of infinite
words:
the unexpected of imperfection
and waiting for the kiln
to react long and slow and
subdue the method in the beauty
of fire and spark and blue-green
hot sweat rising up over a clay
glazed and new and unused and
placed at that exact distance
from the start and finish
of flowing tip-tip-tip-tapping
and running through the steel
next to the succulence of a pond
that is all of these miles away from
your home,
and writes, types, draws, paints, etches
the scattering of shoulders that
turn, churn, learn, and verbs a word
that has yet to be created,
or corrected.
In writing on 02.01.10 at 03:37:10 PM ruby, quartz, diamond
steel, titanium and those things
on the right side of elements
in a table written and
adjusted and edited:
next to the click and the
stitch and the solar cell,
which
recharges the
escalation of every grin
and fuck up
that binds our wrists
like leaving one year behind
and three ahead.
it’s dodging the fabric of
displaced timing
like a roar coming over
the hills
caught up in
straw and spruce and
the cerulean sentience
of instant aether,
like we are fifteen
hiding the white
under our lips that
cajole and shake
and move a moment
spinning off the scented
silence of that mirror
reflecting the lights
of a million slips.
laughter is
timing the location,
which is
a stage we paint tomorrow
amidst the clomp of feet
and the chorus of flattery
that likes to lay the arch of
passing and missing and
finding and knowing and
understanding that the
second slipping by
on the gear of ruby
and quartz and diamond
of a paused watch
is
found in the glances
showing time is everything
but a stop.
In writing on 01.26.10 at 11:01:25 PM you have a story you are dieing to tell
again as you climb to the top of those vines
where we hid the key that night after the rain
storm that felt like summer in winter
and told ourselves this is how it is
and how it would be as we wait
in the morning remembering how cold
the other pillow was in the middle of
the night and trading the glory
of flannel drenched with the heat
cast off the radiator where the cat
sleeps after staring out the window
out over the horizon we can’t take
our eyes off of even though we know
staring is hard most of the time
and so turn away as quick as we
encountered and told our allegory
of how when we drink we need to
here the words of those that can’t
drive us home and remind us that
in a cocoon of cascading calendars
we are not supposed to meet those
that cause question to become quandary
like, we know!, we say, we play
in between the paragraphs of growth
that flow faster than sentences left
in a stream sliding past the house
we worry isn’t built by our hands
but by the hands of every necessity
that is higher than the lowest deed
but is still perfect in the moment
and is exactly the story we hope
is written after we climb the vines
to the place where we hide the key
after a night of trying to hide
our belief.
In writing on 01.26.10 at 09:59:22 PM rising away from a place
where leaves stand still
like singing without words
and humming with a tune
of the space turning
out over the in of the
leg tossing the wayward
thought about sin
while our eyes look
at a picture of your eyes
and you are neither happy
nor sad nor content
nor unfulfilled
nor satisfied nor
complacent nor
apathetic nor
lost nor unhappy
but you are breathing
whilst mixed up in a net of
beats and hymns
and plans drawn slyly
in the sand of conjecture
and wishing the wish
to be a reality
but knowing that in a
sea of time and history
and gifts made for a
future that is a present
in the middle, or is it
the end, or perhaps the middle of the
beginning that steals
us away across that night where
the salt freezes to pavement
and we think of spring while
laying our hair against hair
against skin against the irises
that know there is a fleck of
truth in beauty and simplicity
has a place in as many worlds
that easily exist from here.
In writing on 01.11.10 at 05:25:09 PM there is a bridge,
covered with blackberry
and ivy and feet shuffling
along the dusted
fastidiousness of the
halcyon cracks left
from the decay
left over from a time
when the world traveled
slowly and consumed
the portents of a smile
left in the carafe of
everything that cannot be sold,
won’t be sold, and should’t
be
sold.
there is a ridge,
covered with juniper
and clay and hands
scraping at the
crack in the rock
left red by the
millenia of galcial shift
of pushing and molding
and shaping of the lava beds
that slip up from the spine
of the one thing that cannot
be told, won’t be told and
shouldn’t be
told
that direction has
no bearing
on soul.
there is the collision,
forming the gold of the
authentic rope,
that can be held, will be held
and should be held
in our nights recklessly climbing
hand over hand by hand
at every knot jointed
on our way over
the
road.
In writing on 01.06.10 at 01:38:52 PM promises are just virtues
wrapped up in a vice
locked away inside the
wisdom, or perhaps
it is folly of a
laugh at the absurdity
of permanence or
justification or a life
that could be better,
if better has a definition
if only so much as it is
looking in, or is it looking out
or back in through a window
with frost climbing like spider webs
from the corners of impropriety
like intermissions in existentialism
and the eight second pause where
the story is told in a reality
of what exactly a future of
supposition in surrender
on a sandbar at the
end of a river
we both know
carves out
the banks
of where
we are
at.
In writing on 01.01.10 at 12:28:52 AM i love you,
you beautiful fuckup:
who hasn’t sold time
or respected the sweat
on the brow
of the life
well run.
i love you,
you beautiful mistake:
who drifts toward
the horizon of a
sail made of
the maps others
lose at
sea.
i love you,
you beautiful conundrum:
who shadows me
wherever I shall go
and whispers over necks:
this is our life
and the yarn
is close to
being spun.
i love you,
you beautiful fuckup:
now run in the snow
and yell until
your lungs burn
with the world’s envy
at just who you get
to be.
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