In
writing on 08.20.09 at 10:47:40 PM
painting with the stars is
by far the easiest brush
to extend from the wrist
and flick the tale of
water color across the
canvas carved onto the leaves
gathered up into that pile
in the fall of youth.
raining the words down
upon the ears is by
far the easiest way to tell
someone those stories about
the twenty foot high fence
we would erect around them,
but the easiest route to
to the gate through a garden
tilled and sowed and
planted in your heartbeats.
explaining that life is just
images passing from novels
written by those that
have yet to plot a suitable ending
is really the narrator’s easy
way out, and we don’t really
like easy, do we?
In
writing on 08.20.09 at 11:49:27 AM
here is a match lit in
my hand.
the sulphur tipped wooden
recalcitrant caller telling me
that in these seconds, prior to
us inhaling,
we are alive.
that match can ignite the stack
of books written by the fresh hands
of teenage wanderers who
know pentameter but choose to disregard.
there is a lantern lit in
your hand.
the cave stretching out before
us with the ruddy clay imposed
midnight echoing the paths
we get lost in
searching
for your flame.
that lantern can reflect the image
of a flashlight in our mouths
orange with wonder and red
with youth.
there is a fire burning with
your embers.
slow and smoldering with blue green
hot hiding the subtleties of
the crackled fizz pop
of my
explosion.
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 08.20.09 at 11:41:36 AM
we have read that dreams are under
the guide of a subconscious
wunderkind cinematographer
who leaves the movement of
dollies and the lensing to
the lesser hands of stored
proposition and delectable
narcissism.
we know that time is drawn up
in that tracing paper book
left in all of those rooms
we retreat to when the night is
colored with left over
crayons from the box of 64
left to melt in the sun.
we learn that each direction
is really just the next
dance recital of those ballerinas
that are only interested in
the clippity-clap their tap
shoes make as we dance into oblivion.
In
writing on 08.12.09 at 10:37:29 AM
if you bring the smirk
i will bring the getaway car
and magnificence.
In
writing on 08.11.09 at 12:19:45 PM
when i was four i fell in
love with a woman named
Stephanie who flew away
as she had appeared
with the exchange of a
land that can only be
fathomed by photographers
who leave the frame open
too long.
when i was fourteen i fell
for that girl who i hadn’t
noticed talking in a tongue
that only the mountain men
understand after they
spend nights wandering through
the hills mixed with Pyrenees
like the wild cry left by the
hand of a painter we all argue
about the existence of.
when i was twenty-four i
flew across the dried out
ocean of years gone past
like Odysseun happenstance
to that location just above the
explorers belt where he hangs
a knife sharp with
moments washing away every
gathered bauble of recently carved
rivers.
now that i am thirty i see
that every drop down the well
with a bucket tied to ropes
bound and braided by a life spent
knowing that love is what destiny
wishes it could be,
that affection is what fate
could never hope to be.
now that i am thirty i see
that every voyage is just
chaos casting a sail
and we,
we are left to imperfectly
navigate a new direction home.
In
writing on 08.10.09 at 12:15:10 PM
when you shower i
wonder how long it takes you,
i would stay forever.
In
writing on 08.07.09 at 12:55:03 PM
when i first learned to turn a phrase
i thought everyone knew
exactly
where the words would
fall.
when i first found how to turn a page
i thought everyone grew
precisely
from the same rain swept
call.
when i first opened a new door
i thought everyone knew
absolutely
when they had left their
hall.
now that my sentences are tried and true
i know that what we view
imaginitively
is who we really are in chaos’
squall.
In
writing on 08.06.09 at 03:07:06 PM
Otis Redding//Love Man
there is a town just off the coast
of that country you and i
visit
in our dreams when
not
separate like the atoms
split mirroring each other’s turn.
there is a gown tusseled on the floor
of that cottage you and i
build
in our letters when
silence
seems to take a road
joined after diverging through ferns.
there is the pack bound and braided
to my back where you
can
place all of those weights
even
just to take a break from your
translucent butterfly winged verve.
In
writing on 08.06.09 at 09:54:50 AM
your huff and puff
is exactly the tone I want
to hear every night.
