Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Multiple #1

Your something this and your something that and did you get enough sleep this month, this week, this year is a strange one. You go to interviews you write and you think and you write until your hands come off or it feels like they do and you try to breathe and you ride your bike up and down hills and hills and something like the shortness of the day closes your eyes for a moment and you are up again and doing it again there is no next day only a sense of again again again. There is the disc, glowing the sky, our sky, a musical place with animals and yams to hang on. Some sort of glow comes from inside our hands, our writing hands are re-wiring and something goes, making sounds as it goes, making me (us) ((our multiplicity of selves)) into something more, something rich with sound and unconnected rhythms, something about loving makes loving easier, something about all of this regarding the frightful truth. And friends in strange hats make things easier to see, to understand the roil of sounds inside, axle grease, refusal to fight, switch and be progress, be all over sound, be fire trickster and range rider, steel tube rider, with wheels below and a shocking sense of hair getting thinner, urgency of poetry and urgency of torque, legs, et cetera. Something about memory and smell. This, then again, maybe this other.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Series Of Teams

What it means to be sad and unheard,
Why the door to the roof is locked,
Why children fear basements.

There is the ground,
Up where the sky begins.
The ground’s dissonance makes it beautiful.

Shining through soliloquies
Of lamps and translucent skin,
The voice of a lonely man roves towards town.

Thinks the voice: How to be a part of something that rings,
How to leave this old blandness behind?
I could be a bandit, stealing food for my family,

Or slip away unseen,
No one knowing I was here when the world was dying,
And become an inert chunk of time.

The voice trips over hills between fields,
Dissolving as lights from town approach.
No alarm sounds.

The plight of being made of thought, rats and voices alike:
One team must seek, the other must flee.