Continewity?

March 31, 2011 § Leave a comment

Arriving madly and badly is the wind, here, again. The woman’s house is wooden, and its walls quiver in anticipation of our voices. When I am reading, I feel the air escape the chimney behind me, come forth to kiss my hairline come. Glasses off, on.

And welcome:

It’s the evening and we’re all okay with words now. The cats climb up towards the sounds and mouths and the move, the way in which we might.

Glorious is the floor and the wind around the close.

Glorious is the wee’in you shoulder over, back and over, shudder.

Let me in, she is weeping, let me in.

I have tapped four times and still forgotten are our rhymes. Like lying twisted, like letters. I’m always the end of a word, and you an ‘I’. And the sheets dots. And the tiles and ceiling, lines.

And the arms, calligraphic chains. Never go, the form and the shape and the shadow cry, never let go.

Seasonal Slur, Baby

March 30, 2011 § Leave a comment

implies the meaning of possession

March 30, 2011 § Leave a comment

i have some friends who are poets, you know
poets you know
poets, you know
i have some friends who are poets, you know
some friends who are poets you know

Let no man write

March 30, 2011 § Leave a comment

“The essential smile In the essential sleep Of the children Of the essential mind”

And the blind are blinded by the ‘other’ which is blind to its own sensation of blindness. America, I’ve missed you. Where is my screen without you?

I want to take my socks off and walk over you.

Your forearm carpet grace.

Anxious anxious father.

I’ll speak of the ‘why’ and the ‘how’ I came to stream by, like water. To not know and believe, and know too much to believe.

It’s the knowing that prevents the piece.

Here is eastern mouth. Here is eastern west. And our ideas struggle like fish in a flood; they could get too happy to return to us unchanged.

The only worry I have is the ‘missing out’. They might be ‘missing in’. Like ‘in action’ or ‘inside’.

Show them how it’s done. They don’t know about the root of the thing they lean upon. You can’t unlearn, so learn ’em.

Star noteworthy of notice. Nine chimneys, none cracked. The sky lives like a god and breathes like a baby above. When I forget it trembles, I forget I’m loved.

I was born in the Laties

March 28, 2011 § Leave a comment

I’m suddenly sad. I’m suddenly old. Seeing Adam? Yesterday I was sixteen, today I just am.

I don’t want to know know what love is. I don’t want you to show me.

What I do want is for everything to slow the slight down. I’d rather not see everything passing, I’d rather not. Yet because I have seen it once, I’ll ‘see’ it again, in spite of blindness.

And now he is not. I still am. We buried him.

It’s two AM. Really it’s one. Damn daylight saving time.

I don’t want to know what love is. I’m scared I’ll see the colours again, and then in time (like now) I will see everything that passed between.

I can’t write about this because it’s too hard. Everything flies. It does.

And I don’t want this.

Undigging

March 12, 2011 § Leave a comment

Because I’m from that area of greyish gloopy brown, where sky meets soil in the manner of thinning hair upon skin. I’m from there. Know me.

I’m from there. There is nowhere but the earth itself, fighting the air for space inside itself. If you look inside the soul of ‘there’ you’ll see the webs and dust and other things that would suggest no one has been there: for years.

Stop dividing up the world beneath and between my feet like it’s got to be, just GOT to be carved like a sunday roast. Yet perhaps it is our feet that inflict the incisions. Not from decisions, no, just by chance.

It’s chance that brought me back and chance that chose to put you in the way of my Raleigh. Now, I’ve given it a name. Bow down.

I’m not digging it up again. You do, you make me want to dive into the earth and not re-surface and I’m tired of having my soul looted like the lair of a handyman. Chisel chin.

Softly softly. He’s not alone in the old, cold field. We’ll come too, soon, and make like cornrows in the sun. It’s always sunny on that mountain.

And I thought I should mention: we should never carve the soil up, in our minds or with our words, to make it ‘ours’. We only need to dig when we intend on diving in.

Not yet. Again.

Where Am I?

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