In
writing on 08.20.09 at 11:42:32 AM
in your silk backseat
i can write you a novel
that will rev engines.
In
writing on 08.10.09 at 12:16:45 PM
the line that traces down your hair
past that spot on your neck
that only we and the poet know about.
only i haven’t felt it yet
but you know it’s there and
with my words i could find it past
the couplets using your hand as a guide.
that line tracing down your back
past your hips to that place just
above your leg that you tell me about.
i am sure that it exists even though
my hand was made to its measure,
or so i have been told by the carver
of your virtue who betrays you in sleep.
the line traces down to your feet
drawn by the hand of a painter
long dead but not forgotten since his
final work of your masterpiece
hangs in that museum with the overflowing
gutters of warm summer rain drenching
that window i peek through in your dreams.
In
writing on 08.07.09 at 09:55:28 PM
Angus&Julia Stone//Paper Aeroplane
i know that the pillow
only fits my head
shaping the feathers next
to my exhaled emotion
and hair
tossing
round
and
round
and round
with midnight behind
the silk of what your hands
could steal away
underneath my willow.
i know that the sheets
only form the linen
of ballerinas prowling near
the window breezing
and limbs
turning
over
and
over
and over
against the mystical
framgment of what your mind
could be gathering
by the side of my street.
i know that you are awake
even though distance
is folded near the feet
of my nightly bed
and breathing
in
and
out
and in
is all that inside
every one of these moments
hearing you take
that dream for sleeps sake.
In
writing on 08.04.09 at 10:41:38 AM
at three past midnight
i found a word that you lost
beneath cagey skin.
In
writing on 08.03.09 at 11:21:52 PM
in rugged hand drawing out
concentric circles cloning together
the simplicity of measuring
964,290,120.
knowing I don’t know
should add up all
of the seconds between
then with now.
in my hand 1,388,534,400
won’t subtract too much off
finding the perfect
moment to say I am true.
knowing that I always knew
why it’s worth waiting
find out what it is
like to multiply with you.
In
writing on 08.03.09 at 09:40:39 PM
The Band//The Weight
on coasts of little towns
somewhere betwixt the mountains
that climb high, higher, highest.
above the pavement sealed
with the night time drives
like midnight swims:
next directions on known off ramps.
there are collators of different
scores standing by sinewy scales
announcing: cargo we
tow behind us in trailers is
made of diamond plated revolvers
shot from our cannon of heat.
on slopes of shimmering crowns
somewhere beyond the plains
that roll long, longer, longest.
below the billboards erected
with words of wanderers
like indian chiefs rushing
with buffalo: we forego the stop
blowing on through the twilight.
In
writing on 08.02.09 at 09:24:36 AM
every morning that
i wake up to your tongue is
one more that i want.
In
writing on 07.31.09 at 12:25:48 PM
Click to Listen to Lucinda Williams/Essence!
i like to write the stories
that are unfurled beneath
the banners pass,
through the silk screen
made up of dyes meticulously
crafted from the deepest:
part of your ocean.
i adore hearing the melodies
that count out the staccato
flexing of lungs,
take that tumble under
the silk sheets made up
like the ladders used:
to climb out your back window.
i love stealing pulses
whipping about a stone hippocampus
passing through the ears,
so that echoes of a tide
crash make up an essence
easily recognizable:
yet is still your unknown.
In
writing on 07.28.09 at 05:27:47 PM
complexity is a virtue wrapped
in the irony of wishful thinking:
mixed with the wooden spoon
of self imposed betterment.
even though that is like folly
trying to perfect the rough edges
of a monogram cast from the dies:
tapping, tapping, tapping
out the morse code like fingerprints
slowly drifting off the clocks
that go
tick, tick, ticking from where
you are and where eventuality will be.
simplicity’s sexiness is quickly subdued.
escalation is a vice nestled
in the economy of wistful blinking:
caressed by the molten truth
of sweat
drip, drip, dripping down the
small of your back as you
know where to sleep.
In
writing on 07.26.09 at 03:10:59 PM
there is a silence that I suspect is
mixed in with the echoes of
birds calling out in the summer
rain.
there is a line that is drawn
shining about your name like
every night not spent in
vain.
there is every moment auto
focusing on who I am
knowing that you can’t be
tame.
there is all this time that I take
for granted hoping your
everything is alright just the
same.
