i would mimic i was obsessed with yellow
your gestures spanish rose
memory and time rose and roared
out of step full bodied
voices trapped as a descriptor
in magnetic tape too hot to sleep
reinstate the shades i would like to
pulled from a ceiling along the way
living on a hill avoid the trials
nothing is a surprise sit quietly
the future rolls in watching burnt things burn
I wake with the weight of youth and regret. The air is sticky with the force of prosody. What is even the point of poetry or drawing out the lines? Are the strings in tune? I can not seem to hold the speed – steady as she goes. The trace minerals point to the inclusion of spectacle. Worlds within worlds carved and empty so that every scrap needs to be eaten. What was it O’Hara said about food and poetry about style and swagger about the city that chases me? What was my intention of starting this jaunt? We are greeted most morning by birds bickering as dreams start to unravel. The road is still there and I am still there and the inconsistencies of intimacy are all we have left. You take the high road and I take the low road and somehow, somewhere in this room or the next the history of this place or poem becomes manifest. The tide seems to ebb, taking with it feel part of the world. We are left with stretches of reference points and other anchors to cast.
Flowers are nice. The desire wound right around the starting line where the wind picks up. The hard outer shell sharp to a point opens out into pale blue blooms. The sky welcomes the shift and crumbled sheets where a tiny head and tiny hands lay sleeping. I pivot where the meaning starts to fray while remembering the kaleidoscope of orange and black land and flutter and land again. Resigning myself to the fact that I will not transform came easy, one look in the mirror and the wound reopened in the present tense. Breathing does not come easy, every movement is forced and considered but somehow I play my part in reseeding the wildflowers and weeds. I am worth my weight in fruit or at least I take that to be my truth.
When the line is loose all bets are off and somewhere the voices and somehow the insignificant details start to glow. The wind that felled the tree never seemed like felling me but I crumble and crumble and only hope for the world to turn. To begin, a word is a bold assertion of time and purpose and love and being with or without yet somehow I struggle to decide what to eat and when to care. I strip it all back and every day I strip it all back to find guilt and shame and history. I have no eye for detail or colour or position or numbers or social niceties. I lie. For a time and round deep and background noise I play ball and laugh and nod and hit every note. The move is step and step and turn and turn up the volume. Hold your own, throw a ball, let your chest swell, make your mark, fill your lungs. The list is the shortest point between a and being someone else so I fold myself in to take up less space because already the world is too full of chatter.
we draw the long birds
to scale across multi volumes
tracing the vivid bachelor button
through cornfields and the history of horticulture
my namesake by the ditch
supplanted in winter
align the jack
and wade to the edge
a flush and a spring
fashions for forgetting
lonely is not a state of being
but being without
planted among the crises
which continuously bloom
born out of winter
the crawling wind takes love
turns of a two-pence
and ‘hey’ he said
walking swiftly along the equilibrium
sequin bellasandrian
we call our mothers
mother and trail lights
red and blue and the sudden drop
and green and blue and blue
and red wither
to step out
amongst the asphalt and afternoon drinkies
seized by the longing for guilt and other histories
the stinging sweetness casts into the ebb
we fall apart
smacking our lips to the sound of snares and hi-hats
losing the breeched vocal irregularities
it is unavoidable
it is the undeniable that makes us believe
in the turning point crackle
tear up
poor ponder
we follow the path into the forest.
the branches spread and weave like a government slogan.
we fought the mark and bought the bile
while wild flowers grew and swept the way, by the way, along the wayside and fell.
we all fall.
it is the fixed point in history.
god is change.
a great beauty and all that.
at the end of the day
in line with the face of life
from a table or the table in the middle of eighteen gray houses
we rose in accordance
developing before becoming laws of the state
heads to hold
i found you sleeping and struggled to carry you
i find you and i find my brother along the dead run road
i find the air is verbal
where we gather now is fraught with cryptic messages
i desire to unfurl the gut feels that language lost
failing to call into being
stifled
those wee explosions leave me bate and fightless
sin is the lived experience
turned to bone or bony tissue
sup from the verb
the question not intended
we follow the path into the forest.
the branches spread and weave like a government slogan.
we fought the mark and bought the bile
while wild flowers grew and swept the way, by the way, along the wayside and fell.
we all fall.
it is the fixed point in history.
god is change.
a great beauty and all that.
at the end of the day in line with the face of life
from a table or the table in the middle of
eighteen gray houses
we rose in accordance
developing before becoming laws of the state
Daylighting our lived arteries which run with the bulls and lunar time. I place our lost contact on hold and pray the only way I know how- eyes rolled deep within my head. Where do we start in the ruins that so many call jewels? Where do we go and how do we teach trapped within the chambers of history? There are lines intersecting and then there are breezes which seem to ghost us, leaving us to doubt our very existence. The phone rings. There is always a phone ringing. The production of wings is now unethical and only the worthy whose lives are scaled back and sanded will rise to the top. I log on and register my disapproval and become ephemeral. My bones turn to water and falls from the sky in heavy burst of contrition.
we fold and push
paper from one world
to the next
our sentiments are a bleedin heart ache
a crowded room
where i have let myself fall to the wayside
that ditchfull
brimfull
had your fill full
under the goings on
the force of stories
told as humorous
here is the laughing pile
taken to the stocks
some moments before
