In
writing on 03.01.10 at 02:20:36 PM
you might just be Mussolini in mascara
or Hitler in heels,
ordering the masses from your balcony,
but I have a feeling that is just
the misdirection of restrained history.
there is the chance that you
just might be
Stalin in stockings
or Pol Pot in a peignoir,
but I have the notion
that those are just definitions
chosen by those that you properly
ignore.
there may be the possibility that you
are Castro in a camisole
mixed up in the menagerie of Mao,
but from what I have seen
it is far easier
to believe that you
are a Hume between the heat
of the sheets,
and I am just
your
Dada for dictators.
In
writing on 01.11.10 at 05:25:09 PM
there is a bridge,
covered with blackberry
and ivy and feet shuffling
along the dusted
fastidiousness of the
halcyon cracks left
from the decay
left over from a time
when the world traveled
slowly and consumed
the portents of a smile
left in the carafe of
everything that cannot be sold,
won’t be sold, and should’t
be
sold.
there is a ridge,
covered with juniper
and clay and hands
scraping at the
crack in the rock
left red by the
millenia of galcial shift
of pushing and molding
and shaping of the lava beds
that slip up from the spine
of the one thing that cannot
be told, won’t be told and
shouldn’t be
told
that direction has
no bearing
on soul.
there is the collision,
forming the gold of the
authentic rope,
that can be held, will be held
and should be held
in our nights recklessly climbing
hand over hand by hand
at every knot jointed
on our way over
the
road.
In
writing on 01.06.10 at 01:38:52 PM
promises are just virtues
wrapped up in a vice
locked away inside the
wisdom, or perhaps
it is folly of a
laugh at the absurdity
of permanence or
justification or a life
that could be better,
if better has a definition
if only so much as it is
looking in, or is it looking out
or back in through a window
with frost climbing like spider webs
from the corners of impropriety
like intermissions in existentialism
and the eight second pause where
the story is told in a reality
of what exactly a future of
supposition in surrender
on a sandbar at the
end of a river
we both know
carves out
the banks
of where
we are
at.
In
writing on 10.05.09 at 04:07:11 PM
the center of a soul
is all that it takes
to find where you call
home.
the ringing in our ears
playing off the doors in
the copper canyons of our
rome.
the center of our heart
is all that it takes
to save our souls for
home.
the lingering in our feet
bouncing off the floors
in marble monsoons of
hope.
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 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 10:47:40 PM
painting with the stars is
by far the easiest brush
to extend from the wrist
and flick the tale of
water color across the
canvas carved onto the leaves
gathered up into that pile
in the fall of youth.
raining the words down
upon the ears is by
far the easiest way to tell
someone those stories about
the twenty foot high fence
we would erect around them,
but the easiest route to
to the gate through a garden
tilled and sowed and
planted in your heartbeats.
explaining that life is just
images passing from novels
written by those that
have yet to plot a suitable ending
is really the narrator’s easy
way out, and we don’t really
like easy, do we?
In
writing on 08.20.09 at 11:49:27 AM
here is a match lit in
my hand.
the sulphur tipped wooden
recalcitrant caller telling me
that in these seconds, prior to
us inhaling,
we are alive.
that match can ignite the stack
of books written by the fresh hands
of teenage wanderers who
know pentameter but choose to disregard.
there is a lantern lit in
your hand.
the cave stretching out before
us with the ruddy clay imposed
midnight echoing the paths
we get lost in
searching
for your flame.
that lantern can reflect the image
of a flashlight in our mouths
orange with wonder and red
with youth.
there is a fire burning with
your embers.
slow and smoldering with blue green
hot hiding the subtleties of
the crackled fizz pop
of my
explosion.
