fragments of last weeks autumn
I can feel the cold outside coming in through the gaps were the window doesn’t quite fit. The wind pushing these great gray cotton waves above, tearing branches from the tops of sycamore trees, spilling sterile seeds and sheets of ice and rain, soaking the ground into brown and black pools that run off in every direction and swallow what is left of the green. I can feel those cold fingers work under my clothes until my skin is chilled with bumps. I cannot remember the smell or taste of spring.
Shooting heroin each time was like falling in love. That warm flood spreading up from the guts, that settles in the balls and under the eyes. That lights the room with a dull fire. Watching my mind skim and pick through its mental dictionary choosing only those words that slide off the tongue in just the right way. Smooth - slurred. The films behind the eyes dance. Idle hands. Swollen flight.
How many times have I fallen in love like this? Count the perforations under my sleeves. I am a man living in love. A walking flower constantly in bloom. A wash of luke warm water runs over my life. I create my own beauty from the distillation of this crooked desert rose.
The weather works like a wire brush against the skin. The way the wind erodes the body, leaves a path for walking and a room to sleep in or remember.
Like Jim Carroll
and Jesus Christ
I just want to be pure.
To be captured in that moment
when the body breaks open
that instant of blind light
I have been saving for all my life
I want to be an alternative to the sun
to send something back
from this world
perfect
and pure.
I want gather enough to have something to offer
I want to offer more than words
I need to find a way past
The walls, deceptions and masks
But,
I have always wanted most
where have I failed
and failed
where I have wanted most.
[ 20 October 2002: Message edited by: vocab ]
I can feel the cold outside coming in through the gaps were the window doesn’t quite fit. The wind pushing these great gray cotton waves above, tearing branches from the tops of sycamore trees, spilling sterile seeds and sheets of ice and rain, soaking the ground into brown and black pools that run off in every direction and swallow what is left of the green. I can feel those cold fingers work under my clothes until my skin is chilled with bumps. I cannot remember the smell or taste of spring.
Shooting heroin each time was like falling in love. That warm flood spreading up from the guts, that settles in the balls and under the eyes. That lights the room with a dull fire. Watching my mind skim and pick through its mental dictionary choosing only those words that slide off the tongue in just the right way. Smooth - slurred. The films behind the eyes dance. Idle hands. Swollen flight.
How many times have I fallen in love like this? Count the perforations under my sleeves. I am a man living in love. A walking flower constantly in bloom. A wash of luke warm water runs over my life. I create my own beauty from the distillation of this crooked desert rose.
The weather works like a wire brush against the skin. The way the wind erodes the body, leaves a path for walking and a room to sleep in or remember.
Like Jim Carroll
and Jesus Christ
I just want to be pure.
To be captured in that moment
when the body breaks open
that instant of blind light
I have been saving for all my life
I want to be an alternative to the sun
to send something back
from this world
perfect
and pure.
I want gather enough to have something to offer
I want to offer more than words
I need to find a way past
The walls, deceptions and masks
But,
I have always wanted most
where have I failed
and failed
where I have wanted most.
[ 20 October 2002: Message edited by: vocab ]
![:\](https://bluelight.org/xf/BL_Images/Orig_Emoji/wrygrin.gif "wry grin :\")