This is the first part of an ongoing unfinished project that has been bouncing around my skull for years now.
Part I
Nods have become spatial, from the corners of eyes, fall from mouths like wisps of concrete, my nods match the moons cycle, a woman’s heart is my metronome, it has been so since birth, last night while I laid beside you floating from that single moment through several broken moments, moments with beginnings left unfinished, to the fluid womb.
Streets criss-crossed symmetrical veins, mainlines between buildings, blocked rooms, boarding house rooms, any object imaginable boxed beneath sour mattress and smaller boxes still, tangled, dusted, sun ruined portraits of a guest once deceased, once touched, a guest you may remember though have never seen.
Tar black veins run open, sidewalks angular foundation, bricks and aluminum panels, a window mimics the shape of a perfect eye, rooftops touched by antennas fingering gestures at the moon.
From the corner of my eye the neon skyline is a painting smeared by the back of my filthy hand from her lips across her perfect mouth.
Urgent letters written on the sides of ambulances speeding, ambulances of broken typewriters, unfinished manuscripts, blind editors, geniuses with bleeding fingers, tongue tied readers with bleeding eyes collide
-spilling-
the concentration of all insidious minds,
the laughter of mad butchers and locomotive brakemen
a lead sewing needle drawing the blood of hatters day after day in silent windowless rooms, a scream held in a jar, beating the pedals from a rose while singing and weeping, waking to a strangers face in the mirror one morning and not being sure of anything form one moment to the next,
my sickness is a day wound backward
a day wound backward
a day wound back.
Sad and moved by the images behind my eyes, who directs this film?
Some pale moon secretly shines to acquire silk, to lay over burnt eyes, to relieve the burden of the morning after, to collect the ashes of questionable origin, of your mothers spiritual body misplaced in an afterlife lost and found, of men who failed to meet life standing, collapsing into the hearts of mice.
Seems as though the clouds will release ether instead of water and I am waiting for that moment to slow movement so that I may take my time while I make sense of this.
Waiting on this filthy concrete slab, with the wooden men in a dry hot wind tearing through as we whittle an splinter away, waiting with only dark eyes and a slow pulse, waiting from the chest, from the veins…
There is someone controlling the hammers tonight, calling out the direction in which they fall, toward glass or steel, iron or rust, head or neck arm or leg, let me the anvil which shatters them every time.
Some one tonight is pulling the puppet strings of slender birds, confusing their flight, some one commands them all like flawed arrows never aligning, and decides when to smash the slivered clarinets of sparrows, break their wings, wound their legs or let them all break free at once.
Part I
Nods have become spatial, from the corners of eyes, fall from mouths like wisps of concrete, my nods match the moons cycle, a woman’s heart is my metronome, it has been so since birth, last night while I laid beside you floating from that single moment through several broken moments, moments with beginnings left unfinished, to the fluid womb.
Streets criss-crossed symmetrical veins, mainlines between buildings, blocked rooms, boarding house rooms, any object imaginable boxed beneath sour mattress and smaller boxes still, tangled, dusted, sun ruined portraits of a guest once deceased, once touched, a guest you may remember though have never seen.
Tar black veins run open, sidewalks angular foundation, bricks and aluminum panels, a window mimics the shape of a perfect eye, rooftops touched by antennas fingering gestures at the moon.
From the corner of my eye the neon skyline is a painting smeared by the back of my filthy hand from her lips across her perfect mouth.
Urgent letters written on the sides of ambulances speeding, ambulances of broken typewriters, unfinished manuscripts, blind editors, geniuses with bleeding fingers, tongue tied readers with bleeding eyes collide
-spilling-
the concentration of all insidious minds,
the laughter of mad butchers and locomotive brakemen
a lead sewing needle drawing the blood of hatters day after day in silent windowless rooms, a scream held in a jar, beating the pedals from a rose while singing and weeping, waking to a strangers face in the mirror one morning and not being sure of anything form one moment to the next,
my sickness is a day wound backward
a day wound backward
a day wound back.
Sad and moved by the images behind my eyes, who directs this film?
Some pale moon secretly shines to acquire silk, to lay over burnt eyes, to relieve the burden of the morning after, to collect the ashes of questionable origin, of your mothers spiritual body misplaced in an afterlife lost and found, of men who failed to meet life standing, collapsing into the hearts of mice.
Seems as though the clouds will release ether instead of water and I am waiting for that moment to slow movement so that I may take my time while I make sense of this.
Waiting on this filthy concrete slab, with the wooden men in a dry hot wind tearing through as we whittle an splinter away, waiting with only dark eyes and a slow pulse, waiting from the chest, from the veins…
There is someone controlling the hammers tonight, calling out the direction in which they fall, toward glass or steel, iron or rust, head or neck arm or leg, let me the anvil which shatters them every time.
Some one tonight is pulling the puppet strings of slender birds, confusing their flight, some one commands them all like flawed arrows never aligning, and decides when to smash the slivered clarinets of sparrows, break their wings, wound their legs or let them all break free at once.
