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 08.20.09 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 08.09.09 at 12:14:08 PM
you tell exactly what
you want and i will make sure
it happens: now.
In
writing on 08.03.09 at 11:58:22 AM
Otis Redding // I’m Coming Home To See About You
a ghost is merely just the
reflection of a two-way
mirror that covers
in a sheen, like
decisions
that have no business
leaving posies alone.
spirits? you ask,
they are just the
seduction of one-way
conversation that huddles
under the tongues
of women
left swimming in my salty sea.
clever? not truly,
when one considers that
every second left to
questions is like a
peach left lingering
on your skin after lust
subsides.
In
writing on 07.31.09 at 12:25:48 PM
Click to Listen to Lucinda Williams/Essence!
i like to write the stories
that are unfurled beneath
the banners pass,
through the silk screen
made up of dyes meticulously
crafted from the deepest:
part of your ocean.
i adore hearing the melodies
that count out the staccato
flexing of lungs,
take that tumble under
the silk sheets made up
like the ladders used:
to climb out your back window.
i love stealing pulses
whipping about a stone hippocampus
passing through the ears,
so that echoes of a tide
crash make up an essence
easily recognizable:
yet is still your unknown.
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.
In
life,
writing on 07.24.09 at 07:36:01 PM
This to a certain extent is an exposition on my life and my thoughts over the past couple of weeks. For those of you that enjoy just reading the short aspects of poetry, I will understand if you skip on past this. However, the key to most of my poetry on here does inhabit this somewhere, don’t ask me where though :).
Continue down this rabbit hole »
