| white birds at night |
[10 Feb 2006|11:10pm] |
napkins haunt me as the spill begins,
& inend, make
cranes of them
selves in eff(igy
or eff)ort. as for
ward is measured,
spoken oft
en of, cal
culated up
on, &(/or) end
eavored to
ward - we may be
come carto
graphers, yet! for
get the sound of
frames, the slowing
collapse of yester
days' always. never
mind the break &
the mess what to
morrow may fix on
ly by the action of
its Is !ha
not else sees so
much sense in it
self. we wait for
hunger to take
hold, wait for choice
to open & rivers'
spill or rejoicing. so:
i'm cheatin
g, now. & my thought
life has well enou
gh usurped my
actuallife now -
what've i left to talk
about except how love
ly i look in all white.
..& laugh at how fun
nily life carries its
elf into the future;
a comic malady
which aff
ects every
body & leaves lit
tle room with which
to ask for any
thing more than
sustenance.
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| "the bones in my knees are having nightmares" - thomson king |
[09 Feb 2006|01:20pm] |
something like life
is trying to kill me, & will
see, at least, its mark made.
definitely what remains
needs not my description
of it. the pavement arcs
to meet my shoes &
rhyme, today, cannot
afford schemes grand...
or plain...or median.
forward focus takes high
delight in besting my every
effort. how, in
deed, does this thing mis
fit the day? ...as surely as
it does, the meat of me may
quake as i am handed every
thing.
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| being there |
[06 Feb 2006|07:30pm] |
someone else's song
hangs in the
air waiting for some kind
of signal or
go. breaking to broken things
strewn all along the sides of the
room and no words
to alleviate the dull
sounds of cracks.
poems are to be read
while not, necessa
rily, understood. definitions'
way of according
certain things to certain others
brings the whole lot to
confused.
meanbye, Why sits alone
in the corner
stalling a hit and, too, waiting
for relativity
to take...or to
love...relatively,
or love
actually, or to only be in
there. take the
sense this does not make
and move it out,
around the side of the building so
that no one sees you do it.
but...until until, verily, we
may try and try, regardless
of the sense and movements
we do not make.
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| odd or even at the finishing. |
[03 Feb 2006|09:35pm] |
understanding may not
be made different for the wishing
and english is a funny language with
which to be wiring poetry. so there
it is
and may be. broken before nine
tonight; the dinner is waiting
to be made, like
love
and babies and
tomorrow and forever. i (we)
havent a need for otherness,
at the moment,
though it may seem odd
on finishing at the middle of things.
sewing what to who and now
to than.
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| so far so |
[02 Feb 2006|05:08pm] |
good.
then: as far as now
can be contemplated, it is a
perfect moment for
anything, except
acceptance; as third world children
swim your brain
and do not know any language
in specific...
its a trick
these days making moves
down the path you know and
know well; what moves into
a future that could have been
predicated with desire and
nothing. as what identifies
with breaking, verily, we
may eschew impetus completely,
and make -
regardless of tout or
form.
something to see or laugh on,
sometime amid the dead patina
over the world, whose
compass is
disregarded; its polarity drug
down.
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| sang-froid |
[30 Jan 2006|03:44pm] |
the luck of the draw
affords want with
its' drive to persist,
and burn a person
with its teeth which hold and
gnash in small (or large)
bits at any given time.
and time, which is
made for a lot of things, may
now not be made to wait in the under
brush for a signal to begin the
tasks at hand; there is (indeed)
a time, place, a reason for almost
anything.
because when is not accepting
renegotiations, and love knows where
its not needed and behaves
accordingly; the placid day moves
me to reconsider my herohood, and
go, not minding the number of paces
or breaths taken in the leaving.
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| later then |
[28 Jan 2006|07:58am] |
waste carries the same shape
as home and consolation. for
better or worse, the wear holds
no verbiage - only itself. and after
all the talk is finished, the road clearer
shows a sheen of itself
in the mirrors and the sun
may well rightly rue our voices.
sewing & to and, end to end;
nevermind the question as it
answers itself for a small fee,
which is collected unseen. and
seen, now, the ad
-vantage we take, hold, and
are thrifty with though the less
fortunate swell the streets
always.
patience flashes its cost
down through doldrum slums while
the denizens glare and want.
room for words is made or had
and all along thus; with brains
of jungle vines and corrugated
tin.
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| accidentally, i spill |
[27 Jan 2006|10:04pm] |
accidentally, we may do
a lot of things.
and hang the echo of want
on the air as if
it were meant for no
thing except dangling
there.
perfect is attained through
monkish turtle steps
if at all
though we do have some small
means otherwise, then...
except space left out
of context and using
much in the vein of power
, or at least vigor, not
could be seen or made
inasmuchas
observed. and so as suddenly
as it fills you up, the moment
may move in such a way
as to get and
stick. penetrating
throws the wind adores or
adorns indiscriminitely any
worth or functionality
which bears fruit.
"ends meet or do not;
like notes and people and
horizons..." said the carpet
to the ceinling as the sun rose and
night finally begs leave.
misunderstanding, being moot,
shrugs off and onlooking,
finds the constellations actually,
mythically making quiet
sense out of the world
once and for all.
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| chiapas |
[20 Jan 2006|09:19pm] |
these shoes have danced with clowns
and scuffed themsleves
with ancient earth
and the feet inside them have
suffered the scathe
of what it is and isnt to
get
exactly what they deserve.
meanwhile going to getting
is not what one finds
as how it moves or is obtained.
i will eat and have my moments´
worth.
and then it goes and is gone
into the red mountain sunset.
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| san cristobal, chiapas |
[20 Jan 2006|11:21am] |
[a series of vague attempts]
nothing is the way it would rather
seem, really. street signs call
and follow even in broad daylight. answers
find their wake, and fond of the
sound it makes, they join the dance;
unashamed, finally, of the way their
movements lilt, the way they clod and
skip up and down our view
of things.
above this lace, see the sky -
same as any sky. see the people -
same as any people. words now are
satire and the stomach speaks unkindly
of home. the knots are doubly thick
and broad as any idea of them.
so what does the day know
of language or not...itself
a verb and modes not
corresponding to human thought?
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| some tr(p)i(g)ck |
[15 Jan 2006|07:16pm] |
you will love baseball in the
summer. like most fine things
it takes a caring, skill, AND craft
to do well; much like a child.
and a chance is all it needs, really.
fuck football and hockey
and american football and
basketball and synchronized swimming,
shotput, track racing, cross-country skiing,
and skateboarding; polo too, competetive bowling,
and rugby
(cricket, tennis, and golf also)
fuck them all straight to hell, to never
return, to hang only as a dim
patina'ed memory in the american
lexicon.
but baseball is the one, my friend.
if there was one, anyway - it would be
it.
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|
[15 Jan 2006|06:59pm] |
it is something to question
or have in the past behind
not known what time was going
to make of the (any) situation.
and geese point but have lost
their sense of polarity. the world
has not much in the way of
grace. in the fashion of life;
confusing everything with everything
else.
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| viaje a mexico |
[15 Jan 2006|05:00pm] |
|
isnt it something...?
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[14 Jan 2006|09:15pm] |
exceptance and absolutes are
not
going along some or any
rate
of measure; cannot be called
to
have say or not say, relent
or
succeed, as will is not possessed
by
anything other than we. now
isnt
this easy, or more, just? sense
dyes
its breadth all kinds of crazy
colors
now who was to blame for that,
i
wonder...? still, age comes and
finds
us whether close or far. whether
we
like it or dont.
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| ten to one |
[14 Jan 2006|07:20am] |
i've decided that i
will win, regardless of the
current score; and all
the numbermen will run me down
like a feral dog in the street.
i've decided that very
soon is not so very
relevant; very recent more has
sweat on it and pants
from overtaxing itself.
i've decided that my
victory must be hard won;
my streak thus having been
far too benign to speak of, and
not too pretty, neither.
i've decided, finally,
to bring the whatall i
fanticize the things i dream
every bit of gore and gush
and gall that i may muster.
in the name of
getting what i want.
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| perfect |
[14 Jan 2006|02:25am] |
ruin and forethought
have done me in. sick is something
i do not have room for,
nor
the sheer fact of my pining.
it takes too much.
gone now and counting
so what and for what and
again. ask for it. the doing
is easier when it is done to
yourself.
and belief is a funny thing, afterall.
no one can say how much or little it
is worth, really, outside
the scope of now. enduring the
view of always. eyes may not
be all the sense we need as the
dance swings before us
and not else is to be had.
fine.
take it and go away.
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[13 Jan 2006|03:22pm] |
the mood is
linear and my hands need
something i havent.
yes yet is or as
thus of now
but then...what
words have is only
hardly!
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| quiet - now! |
[13 Jan 2006|12:35am] |
the
words uttered on accident
shudder of their nakedness, meanwhile
the spectators groan
at the floating nature
of the syllables...really;
how are we to manage the thing
without taking it underneath
our will? expectation does
not promise anything, except that:
even hollow, moments' moving
goes not, whatever, toward
love. not hate, either, nor fear
or desire. so have it.
and nevermind the melancholy
and the cats meowing and mine...
one, however, shall prevail, finally
at the benefit of life. going
never tasted too good or so
absolute and - yes; the now,
fond of us, packs its fists
and heads on home.
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| finishinging |
[12 Jan 2006|09:02am] |
i wish i knew
what my hands said
to each other
while i lay sleeping,
and enough
are still spelled
with a g.
except my voice
was thrown way
out of the path
and no crumbs
to lead it back, killing
all things and
like all things;
time is
nourishment
as joy and sorrow is;
as fret and relief.
as yesterday and tomorrow.
as well as you or i
might believe.
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| lost |
[12 Jan 2006|02:04am] |
something unspeakable.
my hands, mouth, teeth,
nails. i (and you)
can, without utilizing
my (our) voices, ...
expect some explanation
or truce or
(nevernohow) justification of these
words -
here
now
then
also
without.
slow down.
and remind me of what it means
to be loved and
to feel love one more time
or many times or forever and
where are you?
are you sleeping, dreaming of me?
dreaming yet
of promises unkept,
soil in your coffee? everything
and nothing, foul and forward;
end this there, then;
because it
goes nowhere
and even if i had not slept in
8 days
i would go to where you were, and smile
when our eyes met.
any word is only
as real as it can be, which is
hardly. and if i know
what is good for me,
that is all i will say.
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