In
writing on 09.12.09 at 12:39:11 AM
Tunnels are built by
women
of men:
manipulating explosive design
into a subtle science
of opening the immovable
creating chasms
we talk quietly
through.
Tunnels are just one
of a thousand superstitions
from youth like your feet held
high over tracks that
carried prosperity to my
home before it was
our home.
We hold our breaths to pass
by the entrance too,
with darkness and horns
and counting and a magnetic
vacuum of instant time travel
in your mind and my mind
and their mind and our mind
pulling us true: on pavement
or track or feet or on a playground
next to swings taking us higher and
straighter into the night air as you remember
exactly the story we are going to tell each other
just after the bark is shook loose from corduroy
like dandelions rubbed on palms or noses as we mark
every youth.
Tunnels are built to pass through
with the recalcitrant light eschewing the end of
false darkness on a granite
we used to use to outline black powder hands
to show that we are more human
than previous incarnations.
Tunnels are easy to pass through
even though the darkness seems
darker like a bulb flitting out at
the last second.
This tunnel we pass through
fast like a builder to
unfasten earth.
Tunnels are for passing through:
you and I?
well we’ll just enjoy the view.
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 08.11.09 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 12:16:45 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 08.03.09 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 08.03.09 at 03:45:43 PM
The Dead Weather//60 Feet Tall
there is the tiniest crack of sky
that sounds like a
teal smith corona typewriter
i bought when 25 to
pound out
why love conquers every one
of your kingdoms.
the shopkeeper says we’re mad,
asking if I know how new this whole poetry business is.
Declaring that the point:
is a ribbon left
in place by sloppy semantics,
is all that is needed
to unlock exactly when I
find you.
there is the largest sliver of sun
that rambles around your
tabs and spacebars like bards.
it hits our carriage return
faster than my hand can
lay the next participle past pondering your parts.
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.
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 07.25.09 at 02:25:43 PM
one can count syllables by clapping
but what is the fun in that.
one can count audibles by snapping
but where is the truth in that.
game plans are for those that can’t
wait to see the ending of every
story told before the page turn
of a choose your own adventure paperback.
one can hound cattails by watching
the frogs and rabbits jump from
pond to pond to pond to frond
but how is that mystery at hand?
eloquence is for all of us that
can’t find the fortunes buried
deep in the sand by those that
won’t wait until the stream runs dry.
