In
writing on 03.09.10 at 06:36:13 PM
found at the shadow of your hips on a collage called home
was an advertisement penned by a playwright’s abbreviations
amidst the intervening light years of your supple ohms.
laughing all the way into placated reciprocal tomes
are those columns that calculate the handwritten experiment extrapolation
found at the shadow of your hips on a collage called home.
questions ensure the correct capacitance of your breasted chrome,
binding the electrons that carve like india ink striations
amidst the intervening light years of your supple ohms.
“It is understood that atoms split and blow.”
is the first of fifty-four sentences in parchment selections
found at the shadow of your hips on a collage called home.
“It is with great substance that we explode.”
is first in the last little sentences scrawled by expectation
amidst the intervening light years of your supple ohms.
nebulae are the easiest collisions to witness the gloam
of neutrinos and strings that vibrate each printed subduction
found at the shadow of your hips on a collage called home,
amidst the intervening light years of your supple ohms.
In
writing on 03.05.10 at 03:10:33 PM
vanishing folly
in choice over new options:
wakes reality.
only you:
know where time becomes
true spacing.
simple midnight crush:
escalates complexity
like wizard’s rumination.
fantasy:
is purest fiction
in the seams.
five percent of me:
is a cavern compared to
cracks normally seen.
risqué word’s
private collection:
undefined.
five seconds of sleep:
are the new lengths occupied
by our dreaming seas.
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 03.01.10 at 02:20:36 PM
you might just be Mussolini in mascara
or Hitler in heels,
ordering the masses from your balcony,
but I have a feeling that is just
the misdirection of restrained history.
there is the chance that you
just might be
Stalin in stockings
or Pol Pot in a peignoir,
but I have the notion
that those are just definitions
chosen by those that you properly
ignore.
there may be the possibility that you
are Castro in a camisole
mixed up in the menagerie of Mao,
but from what I have seen
it is far easier
to believe that you
are a Hume between the heat
of the sheets,
and I am just
your
Dada for dictators.
In
writing on 02.28.10 at 07:24:27 PM
shine the volition:
drenched in memory
and patterned in the chaos
of bodies entwined in knowing
that breathing:
is just the middle of an aeon.
split that aeon:
soaked in volition
and bellies left breathing
all of the musty memory
of knowing:
that time is the middle of chaos.
cool the chaos:
igniting an aeon
with hot cataclysmic knowing
built on beach-heads of volition
ensconced in memory:
small slurs conjured by breathing.
beat that breathing:
suspended in chaos
like a collection of memory
writing new words across our aeon
without volition:
senses are the passion of knowing.
echo the knowing:
caught in breathing
the seconds that pass for volition
like our subterfuge inducing chaos
entering an aeon:
that forges the novas of memory.
accrete that memory:
alive in knowing
the canvas of the eclectic aeon
we lose ourselves on by breathing
in chaos:
fire forging our own volition
counting each aeon of taciturn memory
is an act of volition cleft from knowing
that breathing is bested only in simplicity’s chaos.
In
writing on 02.28.10 at 03:10:12 PM
we run away in a whirlwind
smiling in sentience like introversion
over our deserts to valleys of sin.
a book slipping off the wind
like hands in sly fiction,
we run away in a whirlwind.
your current is a fires spin
slow to moments of new diction,
over our deserts to valleys of sin.
bend in the backwards limb
of your dream in midnights subversion,
we run away in a whirlwind
rings as electric as secret jasmine
locked away in temptation,
over our deserts to valleys of sin.
halcyon conundrums create a system
of movement in the maelstrom,
we run away in a whirlwind,
over our deserts to valleys of sin.
In
writing on 02.28.10 at 01:45:41 PM
i will listen to your song
found at the end of two nights,
losing myself all along.
the maddening silence in throngs
fade past a reflecting sight,
i will listen to your song.
forget where we first came upon
the shape of atrium and flight,
losing myself all along.
sleep in middle awkward calm
with glittering words to write,
i will listen to your song.
someday is a verb delicately drawn
in the alacrity of a fight,
losing myself all along.
shake our twilight of dawn
by its loose lapels of white,
i will listen to your song,
losing myself all along.
In
writing on 02.28.10 at 02:33:16 AM
i conflict myself
and
disappear.
your voice
cuts through
the cacophony
and it
becomes clear,
that the beats
i want to say
burrow down
behind your
secret
fear.
i forget myself
and
eclipse.
your moments
rocket above
the din
and the time
comes equipped,
that the arms
i want to sway
are currently
bound to
others
lips.
i conflict myself
and
disappear.
your eyes
slicing through
the layer
of who
i am
when you
are
near.
In
writing on 02.27.10 at 08:30:00 PM
fireworks explode as chemicals converge
inside our skin of ambient sky,
wait: for lightning in the verse.
patience subdues sighs that merge
into a question left as the surprise,
fireworks explode as chemicals converge.
you laugh and lust of words
that pulse in crooked time,
wait: for lightning in the verse.
my sweat in your spit passes the urge
like cascades of instances over spines,
fireworks explode as chemicals converge.
this moment next is like forgotten dearth
remembering your old heart is wise,
wait: for lightning in the verse.
hair and hand and seconds fall to earth
pushing and desiring these growing eyes,
fireworks explode as chemicals converge,
wait: for lightning in the verse.
In
writing on 02.20.10 at 09:05:31 PM
all of the coins
of silver and bronze
at the bottom of the
shallows with the
view overlooking
all of the movement
of streams and current
and time spent
finding humor in forgetting
and a thrill that can
only be shared in the
midst of who you are
and who i am
and a wish that there
was something you
would do or say
that could be polished
on every notion thrown
into that well
in the middle of
our walk.
all of the fonts
of black and serifs
passing along the pages
of beige like the white
of our broken teeth
after the fight along
the way to who we
are going to be and
the story of duality
written in what we
will share in consuming
our mystery and wondering
if wishes are too good
of words to say exactly
what we think as we signify
and share and contort
and distort ourselves
in the closest thing we will
have to our reality
in the middle of
our talk.
all of the confessions
of white and substance
calling the name home
to a mattress found at
the end of the road
where you are now
and the two tone minutes
that we lose ourselves in
and know that time is just
what it is, and needs
definition as much as
definition needs patience
and waiting as long
as is necessary for you
to realize that as your legs
are in my legs and your neck
is near my neck we
are in what masterpieces call
perfection and we will
boom and bray and call and chime
in the middle of
our clock.
