Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Condor In Gel Time

I’m using this truth to cover this lie: that your power is gliding around inside me: a condor in gel time. The far-seeing eyes and boaty wings are all our final loving in need. These water drops on my face are lit by the wishes I wish in the sun. Here is that moment I thought I’d lost, a little sugary thing that smells a bit roasted, and a bit autumnal. A moment for only me that submits to your hands the way I draw them. Somewhere a volcano still doesn’t care. Somewhere a dinosaur bone is bulldozed. The heat of your face, your snake of a scarf, I pull you away from dinner. Hang on me while the world buckles, glittering grave.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

I Do Need Terror

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Tangled Cup

Today is that backwards day. The day you are your father and you are for real walking through that bright blue door. Take your hand and see what’s outside, in trees and teeming. Candles, yeah? Tiny fingers flashing in air. You hear that crack and stand as an X while leaves move through you. Clouds descend on everything you love. Nothing breaks but goes reckless over the world.

Monday, August 28, 2017

Last Minute On The Train

That’s when we meet. A gathering of sand. You lean forward, holding your arc of breath for that first step into the rain. I salute the breeze as our momentum warps together. It’s together already on this planet, and in this galaxy, which will one day meet another galaxy. Mergence. A double curve of stars to bend forward into time. What breathes then? 

Thursday, August 24, 2017

Crisp Life

Everyone has a secret. You could put your hands in mud and just draw circles all day and that would be a perfect depiction of your characters. The arc of this is what you want to feel about your art: proud to make the effort. You call your general tendency The Part That Doubts (the flood, and everywhere). Heaven is a little fool that triggers lightning behind your eyes. It exists when you pretend that you do. Watch the tide roll in, riding violins. Behind the rain a little static punches up the volume. Making is containing the quiet long enough to get home.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Shadows Are Fins

All block gatherings, this solitude that puts heart in my feet. Am I my own companion, am I the one who sees or the one who obscures? This part of me that rivals my bones, is it my wobble of thought? I shadow my face in the moon and then the moon goes away. Just an icon. Then time itself whistles on a line. Time whistles on a line. Time is my known known, but I am in the midst of it so there is only getting out, or sleep. In the weeds we fell, green and wet in darkness, next to our hoping bed. Then the crushing sounds. We, you, me, all these eyes, all these parties that want to get to the bottom. A hard thing is to heft the weight of being without lights to feel around. The sparking blue, crackling the continuous question. Always in some fight, I shadow myself along the breakline of dawn. I am here in the last gilded glimmer of night. I am not here. There is only this tendency to plan, to run and be stone.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Under The Flood

Nobody will tell you: Come here inside this instant with me, across time, forever. Flesh is something we always feel, even when it's grey and folded into tiny corners. We are only drops in the unsteady unwatched rush of matter. 

More, For Glory

I’m in my acknowledgement phase, a cave of my undesign. I slip into rare bends as the dog sleeps. All the couches of our civilized world end with something we call metaphoric togetherness. Like the wild pool fills with me and you gather in a sliding song of blanket chance. Then the lions lurch forward and my hair steams off…purity for the day. That’s the line and I am the ticket. We are the angry ones, the ones who love the beginning and we put trees into space. Yes for you, nothing for the restaurant where we meet in ten years. It’s always this boyish huddle, on the bed, in the little cuts we call style, over the incessant drumming. That was how we saw what we needed: so much meaning that sketches couldn’t be ignored, like the fine horizon. See, there we are at the middle and you along my arm, outrigged and beaming. I saw you and I gathered you under my coat, in the love of lost glances. I would make this new for us, if we could share what it is again today for the mastery we need, like a river. 

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

The Ghost Bridge

Here is the drifted root, the bottom of the heavy afternoon: I long for the sense that time is not beyond me. But it has gone on, as I have, and we are under the bridge of rust, baked in the sun and lost from justice. It’s not that nothing right was done, it’s just that the loneliness of space took us over, and we went back to being children. We wandered along with the sun, its proud march melting our aspirations, reforming them each day. I wished I was you, even though you wanted me more than I could conceive. Trucks made their own wind on the streets where no people walked. Only ghosts forgot, and the rusted bridge collected everything we saw: all busted goblets and glittered coiffures, little starry-dusted starlets tripped behind us while we cried, deep in our joy of solitude. 

Friday, August 04, 2017

Wondering Free

All Gifts

Picture wars are for sand, returned at daybreak to vapor under owls' eyes. Looking for stars gets you everywhere slowly. When our visitors arrive we will give them the seas. High in the midst of loss, our thin hands glow yellow in autumn light. The gaze of time, like some lazy god's arm-hairs, drifts in the break of desire. A broken black cup, unbroken before, unbroken again: our mobile refuge.

Nothing Pressing

She Goes, You Go

Everything is pure concentration now, a rigid mix of what you will and won't listen to. You are here and you are not: that's how cars and people move up and down the road. An artist is here, trying something she's never tried before, and trying really hard. And you're productively ignoring her. She's everywhere except at the tips of your fingers. So that is where you focus. That is your world now. You are mocking what it means to be real. With the side of your mind you love her, this artist. She works without your fear of death and you push your fingers deeper into the forest. Life without referents, the formless breath over water. You want your fingers to ignore you, along with the world, but you are only slipping out of focus.

Thursday, August 03, 2017

Tone Drift

Standing high the rain and the happiness of rain. Hats and gear for the laziest Sundays since gone time. Shells closed in little hands made of chattered questions. Animal sounds in instruments: bear growls, etc. We ache the days we miss, in our pixelated haze, a ripple of limbs. Hyphens moderate the pain of disconnected family and words chunk out accordion guts. Overactive dust-motes dance sideways down empty halls. The beams of sun know how to rock the walls, like a mighty spoon. Silver in light, we came here by boat, and we leave on heavy wind. Birds are never lost in dreams, as they carry us on the wing.