In
writing on 10.12.09 at 01:23:28 AM
i am not a patient person,
never have been,
but i want to be:
balancing impetuousness
with wisdom
like the apothecary’s
scale.
i am not a slow deciding person,
could never afford to be,
but i wonder at it:
balancing moments
with choices
like the taoists
spell.
i am not a fixed person,
don’t choose to be,
but i know it’s wine:
sweet righteousness
with vinegar
like the old
tale.
i am looking forward to
being this person
i know, when i hear:
the footfall
with future
like our chests
swell.
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 08.25.09 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 11:47:51 AM
you don’t need to
worry of ruination
my strength fits two.
In
writing on 08.20.09 at 11:46:53 AM
Sunsets are only the beginning
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 08.10.09 at 12:15:10 PM
when you shower i
wonder how long it takes you,
i would stay forever.
In
writing on 08.09.09 at 12:14:08 PM
you tell exactly what
you want and i will make sure
it happens: now.
In
writing on 08.07.09 at 11:53:35 AM
Keane//Somewhere Only We Know
everyone knows that the
fourth song on first
sides is the most important
part of life’s mix.
just like the seventh song
on second sides hiss
a tape playing with
three chords of your heart.
everyone knows that
fourth songs are the ones
that make and break
what will be that forever fix.
just like headphones
plugged into that stereo
you hide under the bed
hold us when life starts.
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.
