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 11:47:51 AM
you don’t need to
worry of ruination
my strength fits two.
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.
In
writing on 08.04.09 at 11:26:52 AM
Devotchka//Hot Burrito #1 (I’m your toy)
words are like
coffee brewing
just at points of: steam
leaving creme.
both sweet with arousing
musk (when mixed
with the sun) breaking through
those sheets we tore off a
bed we didn’t sleep in.
good nights are
the sound of my town:
slowly slipping along
a cloud drifting moon.
good mornings steal
glances like
the flirtations: in the
street for (those of us that
know) they are connected.
play simple seduction
with hellos and similes
hidden just beyond the future.
dreams are
the mystery of my town:
delectably igniting napalm
stolen from our fumes.
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 07.27.09 at 02:24:44 PM
i had one of those feelings,
that someone walked across
my grave, which i know
couldn’t be the truth
since i instructed all of you
to cremate and spread us from
the tops of hills that you
walk down when we are children;
outside that forest occupied
by the chiefs of old
in their longhouses and
tenements.
That chill where the atlantic meets the pacific.
I had one of those ceilings,
that is built from the reclamation
wood of textile mills built
by men that can’t settle for
the earth at the banks of the
shore they find on the way to
exploding mountains made up
of quartz and lead and gunpowder;
like the nitroglycerin dripping
off the shadows of our souls
as we climb up past the nebulas
forming all of our gold.
In
writing on 07.26.09 at 09:09:27 PM
i wonder if i told you?
Why there was this one
time that i lost the book
of nursery rhymes collected by
a madman on his last holiday
to south america by the amazon
river filled with the pink porpoises
and poisonous cavalcade of empiric fish.
i didn’t?
Well i once lost a journal written
by an astronomer on his last
voyage past pluto, which we know
isn’t a planet but orbits every
single one of those paintings
that were hung up in the louvre
by a janitor who stole them
from every poet trying to be classified.
i told you about that already?
How about the one time that i found
a parchment written out by revolutionaries
that at the end said it was all a joke
and that all they really wanted was some
more tea since a bunch of scientists
had performed an experiment with the tides
sifting through the harbor of their midnight.
In
writing on 07.26.09 at 01:38:53 PM
cruise ships pull,
out of ports that leave,
reflections behind us.
