Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I imagine no more epic

Uncurable pagentry.

I have seen eyes like crystal.

I see only strings of nows

Occuring in mad succession.

I still feel soft pillow-lips.

There is no time, but Future.

There is no we, but Us.

Our life moves across treetops

Like the wind.

Not a Recent Poem

written words are obsolete

before the pen hits the page

before the ink dries on the page,

like spoken words are lies

before the sound dies in the air.

a new white sheet of paper

with no ideas, recites to me all the words

that say nothing about my body

or my city, just forever shielding

lists of words describing trains.

empty metaphors are my motionless lips

and all these terms of

language are merely a motionless pen

poised to write, the choice of passing

the faulty abstraction for the apt.

some call this communication.


today I evaded rain.
riding underneath the running
I imagined myself
on the prarie,
away from you fools

riding underneath the running
I imbibed the wind.
feeling drunk from
the endless pushing momentum,
I swore at the city,
and laughed at my survival.

every minute i spend riding,
pulling weight against gravity,
powering against the elements,
missing her smell,
i become stronger.
i digest this life and shit memory.

Thax Douglas Longevity

there was a swift bladed touch of childmind bifurcated calm
there was an El Che sweatshirt hairstyle dirty from spilled coffee n' tired iron
you watched him take keys from his pocket and twirl them absently
you watched them talk for long minutes tho you couldn't hear you could imagine
there was a soft eternity eon before the light impression left your eyelids
and then it was hard to remember exactly what after all.

So Knows The Silent Clap

I have slept
in many dark corners
avoiding the wind and the thousand eyes
I have walked away
to where I see clearly, though solitary.

it is the lying stutter of voices
the panic'd holler
that pushes me out

this is where my quiet sings
there is where I'm free
flame-kissed by true liberty
and I do this invisibly

never mind how long since
cool soft cheeks of layering snow
have melted angry cinnamon-steam vapors
off of my body;

or how long since the improvised melodies of another mind
have been sung with heavy breath
or palpable desire in my rooms;

you can fuck that noise.

for I have seen the many burning stars,
and I am made of their dead.

I have held the oceans in my mind
and gazed with wild wonder at what lives there.

I have tasted the scented sand of passing days
and percieved change without judgement.

I have, alone, sung the songs of all things
and danced to the echoes sung back.

Invisibility can have this body,
what I see here enraptures me.