In
writing on 09.22.09 at 11:18:45 PM
adjustment is for the hair draping
across the whisper in moments
of who we are,
certain that
we will grow to be what we
just knew in the portions
of hues found at the
top of a painting flume.
evolution is for the fingers slipping
along the paradoxical spine
of who we never plan to
become,
but who we can’t wait to
become once we know
what it is to be that wave
cresting on a sand sharp
with every reason why
we should and every
moment when we couldn’t.
metamorphosis is for the wings flitting
over jet streams left by
every notion that we know,
we weren’t mistaken!
we scrawl across the river banks
nor were we taken by nor forgotten about
on that history that we
curl up like a map of treasure
on an island left in the
pacific of our life.
change is for us,
not because we need newness
or perfection,
but
precisely because every
mistake we know we can make
is subdued by
every hope we know we
feel in the empty bedded
thunderclap midnights teaming
with a cocoon left
to the right of all the time
we take to become
you
and me
and us
and we.
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 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 08.12.09 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 08.05.09 at 02:52:09 PM
glass
is slow moving liquid
i hear.
like time that
is
vacuumed up (by all of
these volcanoes) as
hope
finds the magma sliding
down the edge of granite
hawaiin flower fossils’
inertia.
crystal
is formed by limpets
my dear.
like a creature
is
the (three atmospheres
of the ocean) floor’s
reflection
snapping pictures, while
laughing at how we shine
in their electric
subterfuge.
diamonds
are bound by sand
i fear.
like false conviction
that
(establishes a value
to everything) a
futurist
elipitically ascribes like
laser guided conjecture,
sleeping at the end
of our quarks.
emerald
always is made of
green.
as the gleam you
like
at the tippy-top of
(sequoias that climb
you)
hand over hand over
heart over head,
upward reading the
rings we save for tomorrow.
