In
writing on 09.22.09 at 11:18:45 PM
adjustment is for the hair draping
across the whisper in moments
of who we are,
certain that
we will grow to be what we
just knew in the portions
of hues found at the
top of a painting flume.
evolution is for the fingers slipping
along the paradoxical spine
of who we never plan to
become,
but who we can’t wait to
become once we know
what it is to be that wave
cresting on a sand sharp
with every reason why
we should and every
moment when we couldn’t.
metamorphosis is for the wings flitting
over jet streams left by
every notion that we know,
we weren’t mistaken!
we scrawl across the river banks
nor were we taken by nor forgotten about
on that history that we
curl up like a map of treasure
on an island left in the
pacific of our life.
change is for us,
not because we need newness
or perfection,
but
precisely because every
mistake we know we can make
is subdued by
every hope we know we
feel in the empty bedded
thunderclap midnights teaming
with a cocoon left
to the right of all the time
we take to become
you
and me
and us
and we.
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 08.25.09 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 11:45:24 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 08.20.09 at 11:42:32 AM
in your silk backseat
i can write you a novel
that will rev engines.
In
writing on 08.20.09 at 11:41:36 AM
we have read that dreams are under
the guide of a subconscious
wunderkind cinematographer
who leaves the movement of
dollies and the lensing to
the lesser hands of stored
proposition and delectable
narcissism.
we know that time is drawn up
in that tracing paper book
left in all of those rooms
we retreat to when the night is
colored with left over
crayons from the box of 64
left to melt in the sun.
we learn that each direction
is really just the next
dance recital of those ballerinas
that are only interested in
the clippity-clap their tap
shoes make as we dance into oblivion.
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 08.09.09 at 12:14:08 PM
you tell exactly what
you want and i will make sure
it happens: now.
In
writing on 08.08.09 at 12:09:43 PM
my brain does not want
to write a haiku right now,
It would rather make out.
In
writing on 08.07.09 at 09:55:28 PM
Angus&Julia Stone//Paper Aeroplane
i know that the pillow
only fits my head
shaping the feathers next
to my exhaled emotion
and hair
tossing
round
and
round
and round
with midnight behind
the silk of what your hands
could steal away
underneath my willow.
i know that the sheets
only form the linen
of ballerinas prowling near
the window breezing
and limbs
turning
over
and
over
and over
against the mystical
framgment of what your mind
could be gathering
by the side of my street.
i know that you are awake
even though distance
is folded near the feet
of my nightly bed
and breathing
in
and
out
and in
is all that inside
every one of these moments
hearing you take
that dream for sleeps sake.
