Start out slowly--
good morning my dear sweet beginning this is our section of this earth's crust to break in its brittle little pieces. Underneath the quiet primrose blooms our house grows to the size of a raindrop. Then it shatters like the morning dawn breaks into the young day. Letters fall from up above out of the cold grey soup of the dawn. Then I wonder why this has happened to me. despite the ardent knowledge of my own designs I pledge to forget and forgive and become the instantaneous expression of the greater way we relax our shoulders the golden compass of our dears the years that greatly watched as we forever lasted into the recent past--the underwater windings of this precious mind allows not only once a day but further on what if we watched the recent past unfold our minds becoming remembering the day we walked the acid streets? the time relents its unprecedented hold the sense of being past and fading fast and why if we let the unfolding of song in our midsts determine the path we can all release the finding of one moral place, the chaos of underneath knowing here is its own way--but hold that thought let it rust in its moment the metallic surfaces gleam brightly in the warehouse of our cold darknesses the night's stars gleam faintly in, she huddles close but the feeling of beginning has not been lost cannot be lost memory is not its own reason for being think that stars the sky open ceasing and now just releasing cadence but still--words cannot anymore the wasteland despise the fires that began its own conquest of awarenesses gleaming tin the moment's light picking up a soul from the energetic sampling of forbears before it even could bear its name--the jumping of our wandering hearts has become no more than a single grain of this sand the time stops suddenly then begins anew but no one knew the day we grew the time has now its own questions of relating out hundreds of lack of understanding the very boring moment of fragmented loss becomes song again--wait again--in and out and here again the time is now the greatness of our moments stops the waiting for the fall the returning patter of feet and the building of walls can no longer withstall for please we burst at the seams - I love to know I'm loving--
our lives gather gently onto the cold snow like bonfires in the evening the gigantic raucous water plays against the fountain's edge the cold stone walls lap up the moss seeping down underneath the tiles, the trees dip into the sunset as I sing my prayers to your world. the gentle youth springs into the morning mist like a giant feather of breaking hail the black reality of gorgeous questing wither in your pockets as you resemble the standing stone summer of incipient heaviness that summons itself in our embrace. Voracity of the breaking wave the uncovered thing the daybreak and the birth of a new star the unforgivingness of us that makes ourselves attempt to sustain to keep straight to forever align ourselves against the variablity of breadth of depth of gregariousness of gender-velocity of understanding of weather of perfectly balanced bread on plates of sliver and chrome--heavily the mist springs quickly onto your evening surface the manifestation of our desires is clearly present as the shine in the mirrored wall wanting for the question to be asked: What is the nature of this grief that can't quite become words?
your mind unfolds like a giant clock ticking its inner workings far into the eternal wind and rustling and the echo of cars as they rocket by on a faraway street the light shines through my clouded window into the blazing glare of the sunlit afternoon. the gentle sound of the morning bell tolls inside my headless mind the green morning rises beyond appalachian remembrance. this gigantic unrelated rhapsody of ourselves is getting to be too much, the remains of our day and its influence on our passing, the fire decides when it wants to leave the faintly fading glow of evening. The youngness of the air and the deep respectful vengeance of the undersea heart are those that made me decide to stay.
the air feels strangely here--I wish I didn't have to harden my heart for you, but i can't leave this feeling uncompleted this mystery unresolved this feeling of isolation and consciousness --remember when we walked in the dark and the night was alive? How can I tell you about soft brown eyes or a mind ablaze or what it could mean to howl if you don’t understand the wind? Don’t you want to fly as well? and the time we found ourselves floating down the river and the leaves and the sadness and the joy were all combined that night--go beyond when we couldn't decide the reality of the seemingly vacant slot beside the windowframe's bedlock and--underneath all of our skin is this constant endless driving monotonous understanding of infinity--
The wind whips the stars up on these waves to pieces, dodging artfully the strange glow from the orange sands. Inside our water-filled hearts the time is despised by the mess we’ve made.
midmorning is the nearest available place the next session doesn't begin for another twenty minutes pass by and there's still nowhere to go nothing to find out no more faith than feeling where did your mother last leave the keys when did you lose this sense of ease and security and brotherhood without purpose brotherhood without a need to be constant and unrelenting in your pursuit--but in the end i found her still apart the sound of empty footsteps rang in the hall the feeling of forgetfulness--this time try memories try mind try inside beehives fly the remnants of mornings past sunrises and empty fog—the grey afternoon looks out the window:
this will a singular a little sparrow shunned by cold false-hearted lovers grow amplitudes of skyclouds from this nothing last night a ferry a torch song an overwhelming when-will-we-be-like-this-like-we-were-just-now and in the approaching star-encroaching unidentified aural distance dissonance memory bound bowed-up and stored in the back corner of the basement cupboard scissors a brittle bright green leaflet an unsigned birthday card and four tattered postcards the crumbs of popcorn dust and former lust last Tuesday an uprooting a milling into support beams and cookware soaking in a sink love poems and phone calls and words etched in old-school bathroom stall walls and words unsaid and will never be said and inhaled a cavern of resonating unveiled loves around tar cover cars overhead holes in the roof leaking rainwater bled from run-offed roads The one comes Air breaks the standing heat Relief in the shaking noise hoofed machine canopy and cardinal passenger pigeon extinction and an article detailing the migration of northward specks in the golden-hour and more golden grass as a blanket of orange and air the fallen-to-the-ground-defeat in sleep sweet nothings sung to an unengaged audience of peers. sky breaks through sky what’s left the little precious sparrow when former restlessness becomes comfort and the doing and never-ceasing dance becomes never ceasing dance and calm and dance and trance and whirling becomes flight self-prescribed tragedy scribed on a mountain the night-light pond familiar neuron trees beyond and above our gentle-bobbing heads in a summer evening heat just remember to turn the lights and the stove off histories once soured now glitter-filled now mended and shining and exist in their multitudes rebounds in a recycled and refreshed frenzy of blues and purples and specs of gold-dust crowned with gold flake and peony and in return I crowned her with five-part fascicles and starlight out of the ground and in the greater synesthetic dream out of the ground jackfruit sage a handful of berries the shine of the sun when it reflects off of moving water when it reflects distant memory back upon the opaque unpolished surface dusted forgotten or ignored until someone else has to move in--it vitrifies and becomes the vessel of forward motion and semicolons--
Be my only and final point:
I left in a cab two years ago and alongside the road a littering of anthropological evidence as a guide to stranger places ripped from ever-founding histories into lessening mystery as moonrise illuminates a still relatively veiled dusting landscape it took me past Kingsbridge past quarry past northward road past old burying grounds and formative towns I landed with a suitcase and backpack flat feet on unfamiliar ground and I’m ready to jump into skycloud and I’m ready to poke and prod and push the moon out of her bed and wake the buzzing rays relished-in-red-and-pink love poems to a coffeeboy I hardly know I want to sing with sacred wind premature troubadourian odes and dance unchoreographed whimsies to brighten his opal eyes and I will present to him gifts of cauliflower of newly-sought sincerity of jackfruit dried-plum and lemongrass in brown roasted bags and continue my another thousandth poetic of love and loving and I’ll land on a now-familiar landscape and jump and jump again with the caffeine of familiarity and new formed family--
and I still have trouble remembering his name, though remembered are his gifted energies.
and I still have trouble remembering old ground, though new ease and new trees hold me.
and the first mistake is letting go so completely that there's nothing left to hold on to.
but i'll go peacefully
these are just words now