these landscapes of skin, yield miniature Niagaras of blood, the way the rain runs covering everything and then…
I miss you, all of you curled around the sun and me, with the stars grinding shadows into our palms leaving scars where silt once covered us, a fine dust, collecting scraps of moon light in cups, from a blanket swallowed by sand floors, the waves and rocks of my retreat both shelter and ruin shipwrecks like me.
Telling time by dimensionless ceilings, the constellations of an ancient clockwork, the tragic cartoons of myth, the forgotten lessons which end in morals and punch lines, The pills that promise sleep decorate a vast inky canvas light years above and are impossible to reach. I am frightened by sleep, I am too determined to dream.
The cold hands of kolonopin queens rob my eyes of their dark rings. The morning is lost in a soft fog and I am an oblivion of pillow beds downed with opium and lead.
I reached that night and latter snapped because there wasnt’t enough of me, I am not the mountain I thought I could be, I am not more brilliant or more alive than life itself.
I have nothing left to say. The weight of words, wraps my mind in memories…
Sand floors collapse our blanket into nothing…
A nothing more complete than these memories…
I want to be weightless again.
I want to be weightless with you,
apart from time, disembodied, indentured to the moon and one another, a shapeless mass, a shade of blood not unlike the color loneliness assigns to longing, the color of the rain tonight is the type of blue which longing assigns to a disquieted love, a violin crying conjures specters unconvinced that any living man could be filled with a desire more potent than this. This day has become another dream demanding to be written. In a year this day will be another wrinkled page, filed and forgotten.
Tonight there is no pain, no fear, no complications. Writing now is the same as lying by her side or sleeping in her bed. I am removed and illuminated. I am smoothed by soft tides, pulled by a current of warmth, balanced perfectly on the delicate boarder of lucidity and sleep.
The rain has stopped. It clings to the leaves of autumn trees which will turn to flames in the coming weeks. Crickets, no longer violins, bow their legs without the need for strings. A music, which is nearly silence carries me. A simple music that diminishes need.
Visions bloom behind my closed eyes, striking sharp metaphors, then dissolve. Tea cups of ashes and diamonds, burning tires, broken columns overrun with vines, barefooted children drinking rain water from oyster shells, telephone lines punctuated by wingless birds, a telephone that constantly rings, the rain cascades through holes in the roof of this house, a birth of trees grows up through floorboards...
Her name creates a steeple in my mind. Her eyes, the doves that roost above the bell. Her eyes are often wounded, their clarity sublime. Twin moons, capsules of light further illuminated, refined distillation, wells of ink, the fronds of palms...there is no use in keeping track of her wounded eyes.
Following thought, allow the fingers to walk the keys indiscriminately, without pretext, without intent, without direction, allowing the words to write themselves, discarding the ritual of conscience wording, the way one notion leads to another, the way a series of simple gestures laid side by side become a dance, the way the rain comes and goes and comes again.
These landscapes of thought carry me until morning, yield miniature Niagaras of tension, the way a cloud grows obese with water and then.............release
the weights and balances of being align
her wounded eyes
now absent from
the steeple in my mind
the soft fog of oblivion
dissolves my fear of sleep
more alive than life itself
more brilliant and alive.
I miss you, all of you curled around the sun and me, with the stars grinding shadows into our palms leaving scars where silt once covered us, a fine dust, collecting scraps of moon light in cups, from a blanket swallowed by sand floors, the waves and rocks of my retreat both shelter and ruin shipwrecks like me.
Telling time by dimensionless ceilings, the constellations of an ancient clockwork, the tragic cartoons of myth, the forgotten lessons which end in morals and punch lines, The pills that promise sleep decorate a vast inky canvas light years above and are impossible to reach. I am frightened by sleep, I am too determined to dream.
The cold hands of kolonopin queens rob my eyes of their dark rings. The morning is lost in a soft fog and I am an oblivion of pillow beds downed with opium and lead.
I reached that night and latter snapped because there wasnt’t enough of me, I am not the mountain I thought I could be, I am not more brilliant or more alive than life itself.
I have nothing left to say. The weight of words, wraps my mind in memories…
Sand floors collapse our blanket into nothing…
A nothing more complete than these memories…
I want to be weightless again.
I want to be weightless with you,
apart from time, disembodied, indentured to the moon and one another, a shapeless mass, a shade of blood not unlike the color loneliness assigns to longing, the color of the rain tonight is the type of blue which longing assigns to a disquieted love, a violin crying conjures specters unconvinced that any living man could be filled with a desire more potent than this. This day has become another dream demanding to be written. In a year this day will be another wrinkled page, filed and forgotten.
Tonight there is no pain, no fear, no complications. Writing now is the same as lying by her side or sleeping in her bed. I am removed and illuminated. I am smoothed by soft tides, pulled by a current of warmth, balanced perfectly on the delicate boarder of lucidity and sleep.
The rain has stopped. It clings to the leaves of autumn trees which will turn to flames in the coming weeks. Crickets, no longer violins, bow their legs without the need for strings. A music, which is nearly silence carries me. A simple music that diminishes need.
Visions bloom behind my closed eyes, striking sharp metaphors, then dissolve. Tea cups of ashes and diamonds, burning tires, broken columns overrun with vines, barefooted children drinking rain water from oyster shells, telephone lines punctuated by wingless birds, a telephone that constantly rings, the rain cascades through holes in the roof of this house, a birth of trees grows up through floorboards...
Her name creates a steeple in my mind. Her eyes, the doves that roost above the bell. Her eyes are often wounded, their clarity sublime. Twin moons, capsules of light further illuminated, refined distillation, wells of ink, the fronds of palms...there is no use in keeping track of her wounded eyes.
Following thought, allow the fingers to walk the keys indiscriminately, without pretext, without intent, without direction, allowing the words to write themselves, discarding the ritual of conscience wording, the way one notion leads to another, the way a series of simple gestures laid side by side become a dance, the way the rain comes and goes and comes again.
These landscapes of thought carry me until morning, yield miniature Niagaras of tension, the way a cloud grows obese with water and then.............release
the weights and balances of being align
her wounded eyes
now absent from
the steeple in my mind
the soft fog of oblivion
dissolves my fear of sleep
more alive than life itself
more brilliant and alive.
