In
writing on 03.04.10 at 07:17:10 PM
it was the copper of blue
and the touch needed in howling new york
in that box of white like an island
all of those nights in the fourteen years
before the day of this sunrise
and the randomness of unexpected secrets.
we told ourselves that keeping simple secrets
that we drag across aether filled eyes of blue
could be held every step of the way to a sunrise
over the peaks of steel and glass in our new new york
and for every one of those days there was a year
that drew us across the cold of a north pacific island.
and we have set sail across nights for an island
we found one day on a map in the secret
of your bedroom where you slept too little for those years
leading up to the first breath you drew when you wore the blue
dress across the landscape of linen under those old new york
winter nights dressed up in their scottish woolen sunrise.
and we are in the valley of kashmir for the purple sunrises
that cast the shadow of truth over a lush island
on the day i left on steel and empires for new new york
with the dream of every whisper in the secret
that our lifetime bought in the heather filled blue
soft coincidence of finding that new you weren’t looking for this year.
“It’s the years!”
you claim with each sunrise
and the sky turns from green gray gold to the garnet of blue
and reminds us of the day we found ourselves lost on this island
at the end of a dirt road we hold in secret
because to mention it would worry the ghosts of old new yorks.
“It’s the current of New York!”
i claim knowing that losing those years
is now worth so much more as i hold your name in the secret
sunrise
of this found lost dotted island
at the end of your blinks of true blue.
it’s really a secret letter from our magmatic island
that we spread with blue across these tunneled years
of the sunrise in our new tectonic new york.
In
writing on 10.15.09 at 08:29:49 PM
i’ve never asked for perfect,
or expected heroism.
balancing between action
and dilution
are the laughs
sharing slumber with
elocution.
i’ve never wanted for chaos,
or accepted absolutism.
teetering betwixt diction
and subterfuge
are the stories
sharing stumbles with
confusion.
i’ve never thrown out relativity,
or victimized solipsism.
laying between words
and meaning
are the definitions
sharing remembrance with
conviction.
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 08.12.09 at 10:37:29 AM
if you bring the smirk
i will bring the getaway car
and magnificence.
In
writing on 08.03.09 at 04:15:15 PM
i have a sailboat,
with tall masts, so that we can
cross every ocean.
In
writing on 08.01.09 at 09:22:42 AM
i can wait until,
you decide it is prudent,
for us to be nude.
In
writing on 07.27.09 at 12:09:57 PM
wrote two less letters,
that couldn’t be more handmade,
even when pretty.
In
writing on 07.26.09 at 09:09:27 PM
i wonder if i told you?
Why there was this one
time that i lost the book
of nursery rhymes collected by
a madman on his last holiday
to south america by the amazon
river filled with the pink porpoises
and poisonous cavalcade of empiric fish.
i didn’t?
Well i once lost a journal written
by an astronomer on his last
voyage past pluto, which we know
isn’t a planet but orbits every
single one of those paintings
that were hung up in the louvre
by a janitor who stole them
from every poet trying to be classified.
i told you about that already?
How about the one time that i found
a parchment written out by revolutionaries
that at the end said it was all a joke
and that all they really wanted was some
more tea since a bunch of scientists
had performed an experiment with the tides
sifting through the harbor of their midnight.
In
life,
writing on 07.26.09 at 05:40:35 PM
So yet again, here is one of my essays that are more for me to parse who I am and what I believe than anything else. As always, you can feel free to skip on by if you are just here for the poetry (and the new addition of haiku!). But, truly, what would be the fun in just skipping to the short stuff, when there is so much more craziness to read?
Continue down this rabbit hole »
In
writing on 07.26.09 at 01:38:53 PM
cruise ships pull,
out of ports that leave,
reflections behind us.
