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 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 11:45:24 AM
i will drive at sound’s speed
if you ask.
meeting in that worn out motel
room with brass.
found at the convergence of
no questions asked,
with
the definition as simple as
your seductive task.
i will fly at mach three
if you dare.
meeting in that glinting gravel
road’s rarefied air.
found at the whisper of
destination’s stare,
with
my hand passing through your
rubicon of hair.
i will run at light speed
if you require.
meeting you at the ascending apex
of delicate spires.
found at the junction of
your heaving fire,
with
only the present tense gliding
through our desire.
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 08.10.09 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 08.04.09 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 08.02.09 at 09:24:36 AM
every morning that
i wake up to your tongue is
one more that i want.
In
writing on 07.28.09 at 01:32:23 PM
any second now there is a waterfall
that will crash through the granite
erected at the command of those
that long ago drew our breath
out from the song of where we are.
any day now there is a sunspot
that will explode through
the atmosphere of every word
that has been left to tell us
that the sky is merely just
a border between who we are.
any moment now there is an ocean
that will cross over the pyramids
measured out by all of us that
ensure the reflective casing is
the irregular polish of who we’ll be.
In
writing on 07.28.09 at 01:19:46 PM
capacitor fuel,
is filled with a charge that
explodes with new days.
