In
writing on 09.17.09 at 12:15:00 AM
if we can write the future
using quills made from the
feathers of a phoenix
on it’s last time around
our burn, then
we should make sure
that each comma
and semi-colon (i love
semi-colons; you know)
and period and sentence is
like your finger tracing down
the spine of dusty leather book
left at the back of
the shelf; mainly because
we know that to read it might just
mean that it has an ending.
if we can forget our past
like a jet forcing our hearts
back against the history
of atoms racing over each end
of our wing in that color of
forced condensation like that
night the taxi lights held
the other side of our world
at bay long enough to lose
ourselves in the alleys
that were really meant for you
and now and not them and then.
if we live our presence out
of this space we each are breathing
inside the magnet of
amplified worldwide electrons
playing the splaying of the laying
of every progression that
we both know echoes louder
than an eclipse and softer
than a concern.
In
writing on 08.25.09 at 02:52:41 PM
engineers use white and blue:
to sell the gradations at
which to build a foundation
that will remain stable in
the midst of even the most
triumphant of downpours.
surveyors use steel and hammers:
to draw a boundary
of where we are to build
all of that concrete mixed
by mud and hearts
rolled in by the barrows deep in my hands.
excavators grind out the dusty dirt:
that has hidden all of the
stories made by men’s mysticism like
dream caught rainmakers in
the most hallowed of longhouses
like thunderbirds carving your totem.
we build a construction of words:
wisdom passing an unknown guidance
higher and higher and wider and wider,
our story will grow longer as we place
every board at the beginning of the
eloquent madness of future history as
we elegantly build our mystery.
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 11:41:36 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 08.10.09 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 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 08.03.09 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 07.29.09 at 02:23:24 PM
the math is easy,
just adding letters down and
together does it.
In
writing on 07.28.09 at 06:04:09 PM
yes, I am aware that I often fail at the correct syllabic meter. I apologize if this has been driving you crazy. If it helps from here forward you can refer to it as soaku and let it go. I know it helped me.
