Wednesday, September 12, 2012
A Sort Of Reunion
This monkey morning haze, underneath the pepper man, keeps our restless eyes rolling. All the soda got drank up. I did it, I admit it, I’m a child in this story. Hooray. Watch the way I stand on my head and call out to people who make crow sounds. They rock the sun look, get tan, get Zen, say sure. I’ll strum this here, I had one more night with you, before we ever met. Nothing was total, or awesome. We went fast, the desert made us handsome and pretty. When I went back to your town, I was taller than most and stared at. I liked it for a while, as the monkey man. All your religion fell away and you looked relieved, while I pulled your hair. You held my hand and sang a little tinderbox. I needed help quitting everything.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Wearing The Same Hat
All these tanks, thinking longer about less and less, it’s how we get to our shows. Then it’s harder and it’s the way out, you live it without being home. You don’t think it but I do, as I live in windows. We talk, we birds, tattered and loving, but each day fries us with too many choices. I get my hand up and the days glance at it, measuring everything down. Even lights stop, briefly, the faster things get. This is a moment out of my life that no one will know completely, despite how I record it. Memory is merely a cut and paste job, but swampy. It’s good to be between the faraway and the close, even if it’s only possible. Down the line we’ll use honesty to make things, mistakes, and crack the glowsticks. I know we can if we shout softly to each other, in gracing breaths.
Sunday, September 09, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
Ink Blot Fluffy
Time Travel Or Bust
Monday, July 02, 2012
Animals And Instruments
Without hard work the sad man gets nowhere. He needs music
and now there is silence. The sad man buys food and watches movies and eats and
has the worst dream in the world. He wakes up troubled because he dreamed he
was trying to lock the doors and could not. He could not lock the doors and
everyone kept coming in while he tried to work and think. They tried to name
him Hugh, and Stan, and Hank, all these hefty, big-handed names, but he simply
wanted them to leave or be quiet while he sat at his bench in the basement and
made intricate things from wood. Animals and little houses and musical instruments
out of little chunks of mahogany and pine that he would carve intricately and
slowly when he could keep the people that called him Hank from always calling
him Stan and always opening his door and talking on him. Soon he would move to
a quiet part of town, where no one knew his name and he would pretend to be
mean and nasty. There the only names people gave him were names like Victor or
Dennis, and would leave him alone, he being unapproachable with such names. But
he made better animals and instruments there, by far, and had much more
intricate hands.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
What You Have
Been a while for tumbling, been a while for old sleeping,
been a feeling game, a dying in water bang, a lying in hands. You cannot do it,
you save yourself again and again, but you cannot save you. You close your eyes
for something and something goes away; it happens and it happens that it
happens. You’re built for this, built to
stick the pin back in, built to draw the knife across the animal, built to be
courageous and built to share a breath, perfectly built to see the sun and
wander. Something round enters the field, a vagary, pinch of silt in the derelict
river.
The oracular trees. The bursting. The shoes you took far
into the forest on your growing feet. The elevating.
An x writes this, writes itself as a letter and seeks yet
more variables. The seeking out of things, the fielding and the shaggy
grammatical Huns. Gathering in circles, the forest sees you with your attitude
shifting all the time: it knows your conscience, deems it silly. You don’t
blush, in your souciance.
Go. You have sore
words.
Bread
This
is an arm. Hunger for memory and a mind for the road. The pushing and running
gets tired and I need bread, and butter, and a couple of new feet. I show
myself a sign I don’t understand and go down to the corner for bread. I eat
bread at the window and bread looking over the bridge. The impossible depth and
smell of the past kicks me. I eat bread to forget but I don’t feel filled. There’s
milk, and apricots and coffee, but I just eat bread. The woody smell of it,
like fresh nuts just cracked, hits my nose and I tear off another piece. I’m
far into the middle of summer and the days getting shorter and bread keeps me
familiar. I wake up when I’m not supposed to. I hear birds that sound like
morning, only it’s not morning, it’s two hours after midnight. I reach out in
the dark for more bread and thank the birds.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
Friday, May 18, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Bulk Rate
Happy this happy that happy your listing marine feet busted a Monday window. Egg baby charcoal baby igneous baby gone. Rough cut ice cream, tumble down bastards at the wall ate free. This king, this emperor, childless guru with rustic charms and sibilant coordination, his shanty shoes and tundra pals went down. From storm eye fragrant leaves from shadows and bulk rate images dart circles and concert memories. Throats have worlds. Casting about for sheep eyes, our dice hands find a bier of burning nights, naked in water and wind. Grow cold grow without mercy grow 'til globe gets along.
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