more southerly

it hurts like hell

My chest explodes a thousand times, and ten more; the answers lay like mines in the air, the world sits in warfare; i sip helpings of hallowed love from a shallowed shell – your ribcage laid bare, myself, perched inside it like a taxidermied bird

Just physical, you say, well i say physically there is no way for my body to feel closer to any light more southerly than the north star

I’ll pretend I don’t love it, the fire, the rain, the hurricane

You’ll pretend you can stand the pain, the novocaine, the loss and the gain

I’ll lay my bones out in a circle, a marrow display, the deepests, the furrows, the melted bits

i hold a ball of burning beeswax in my hands; i press honey-ed flame to my lips; i smell, i reek it in, i rake it in – the flame, the flood, the spark, the match, and the flint the match is struck against

and the flint the match is struck against

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stretched across a laundry line

Music washes over me; hands, like rivers; rivers, like dreams / I think about ancestors; about mythology and folklore; about stories that transpose themselves through the ages like bits of dusty gold

I think about the adult world : raucous, loud, convoluted, holding magic for ransom; the skin and teeth of story nearly devoured, hour by hour, contorted into boxey-shapes of rectangles and rhombuses

Ego walks from hand to hand, hand to mouth, foot to foot, mad cow to mad cow; the sleeping mind stays sleeping, radical feet move radii within

I do not want to be talked to; I want to absorb the sound of the moment, privately, momentously, publicly, resonant with the clamour of souls bouncing around me, I want the sound to find its proper place; I want to write the world a love poem; I think not of its being read, I think only of the writing of it, of the prayer to the moment, to be held, to hold it, to give it holding, to let it feel the feeling of being held, I want to care the world back to its proper place

I know somewhere deeply that this is not the right world, it rubs up closely, wildly, but it is altogether a dream shadow of the reticent realness of the world / I carry a small smile on the bottom of my shoe, I let the whispers of the wind echo through me, try to bounce them back through my eye mirrors

And I still feel the shadow of your absence in every brick

Your laughter, the glow of tiny stones, the agony of the symphony


When hunger drips through the world towards me, when my hands are a pale excuse for paper, when my blood seeps ink, when my ink purples amd violets, violents the curtains and pulls down the rhymes, when my heart is an open arrangement here for your perusement, when my ring of memories are a string of pinked, hushed kisses out of order in a line, stretched across a laundry line, when my writing writes you back, when cobwebs splinter the brainfog, when curled bits of shells house small moving snails of memory; slowly, slowly, trailing everything slowly, minutely, solemnly

When lullaby is a crushed prayer to the present; when courage is a slow march towards absolutism, when fire is a burning mouth inside of yours, when memory is a fortune of emeralds in your eyes

a melting process

canyon of march, puddle beneath my feet, hamstring stretch of weather stretching over this chunk of land (it’s nameless; you named it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is nameless). hungry for spring; i am ravenous. hungry for a beating heart in my hand; i am cavernous. parched and patched like quilt-work sewn with sinew. word-work, i am always working – i am never getting very far. i am never getting far enough. love-work, i am always bleeding for it. i am always pleading for it.

wide-eyed vision scape, i am always seeping through the floorboards; gazing past the horizon line; sandwiching myself between sense and sand – glass, and the melting process to make it;; i am always a making process, a melting process, a process of processes processing themselves


 

the feeling that you’ll only love me if i stay far enough away ;;

i cannot reach for you, so i reach towards the silken emptiness of air; i write towards the absence; i lean into the absess; i let the abyss wrap itself around me

i gape at the stuttered splinter lights of trenton; i let winter gallop towards me, apace, a patter; all space a trance about me; always potential in practice, always waiting; always a character in a play in someones else’s timeline; always checking the glass door; always checking the time; always keeping memories like locked sapphires; like a fortune in an outdated currency; like a dowry /  i no longer care about leaving tracks

 

i can see your heartache right on your brow, i can see it

/ a thousand more poems about this; sure /

i cannot stand the glow of your eyes pouring through my brain, but i cannot keep them at bay, so i swim with them, i let them swim me, carry me, no shoreline in sight, but enough light to burn through the night

I cannot stand to sit through the fire, so i glare at the honesty between us ; you stare back, the warmth of the eyes behind your eyes is so alarming i try to keep myself from setting ablaze ;; i brush off the heat, i pour it through myself – it keeps getting caught in my eyes ; it keeps getting caught in my eyes ; i think for a moment that i’ve never looked into your eyes this way before ; i think i’ve never looked in to anyone’s eyes before – if this is what it’s like, perhaps I’ve never done it at all; perhaps i’ll never do it again

i catch your hand, the graze of your fingertips, i cannot stand the warmth ; so i douse myself in mystery, the pursed lips of one who cannot stand to say the truth; who cannot stand the flame ; for fear of getting burned; for fear of getting burned

and when i dream, the dream is of these little ponds of earthen eyes, these animal eyes, hunting me – graceful, somehow graceful (i never knew them to be graceful before); i never saw them so full before; so rich with silent answers

the song is about me, i know it’s true ; the song is about you, i know that too

a sudden canyon

but i never do
have to lose you,
isn’t that right?

as every rock lingers in your name, every strange stone face heralds your voice, every fragment of fragments fingers along your forestry – you, angel pulpit; you, profit of my lifetime; you, mountain of chunked ash and debris still carrying me; you, current of river-wide ocean smiles; you, hurricane of frenzy, of yellow-brick-road hair, of condemnation of the nation you narrated me through; you, of bending arrows pointing towards a future splintered across the time-beaten mountains (now hills, now prairies, now basins dried of water long rained and gashed upon the silt); you, silk of my sanity, surrender of my serendipity, curtain of love laced around the ancient sunrise still rising; still rising, i still rise for you; still waiting, i still wait for you; some lover smashed in time, particle-d in relativity, part-of-me in relative motion around your orbit, part of the sea still chasing our muddy heels – trying to wash clean the reverie. part of my sleep still a waking dream; part of my day still a walking sleep; part of the dreamtime wrapped around my torso like a corset, tying me together with the strings and quarks of quaking time; circus rhymes and mangoes and limes; all the times we timed ourselves tracing the universe from my path to your path, and back again. and the moment the paths parted – like a rift on the landscape, a sudden canyon – an archeological arched back – a rotating cuff of surface gruff – a tilled tile of tectonic plate grooved out of place – a pothole in the desert – a leap too steep to meet // and time – tearing towards like a catapult, forgetting your name, forgetting our path, peeling roads away like dunes, like anthills craned away from their foundation. how does the feeling of our never touched future still feel like a path under my feet that i cannot walk? is it buried deep, my songline smothered? or is it vanished, like a penciled blueprint laughing?

a path nevertheless – deep in the canyon banks, eroded and corroded and –

oh, there you are again – the rocks, the trees, the everythingbreeze, the sound of the sound of the echo of the songline still singing // the path towards the path disappearing and reappearing like a dream, like a joke, like a penciled blueprint laughing

oh, there you are – right in front of me – the curled sunlight streaming – the never-ending race between my dream, yours, and the one we’re all waking from

moments unlived

Moth to a flame, I am; and you, you want me to write you into existence

I want that too – the chiseled song; the alchemy of story; the elegant bow on the tide of years; something hidden in a page; eternal/ like a written word made manifold; made more permanent than momentary touch

for a moment,I cannot look; I have to turn my face; pretend the ground is more interesting than any other gaze

I love the list of moments unlived between you and i //

I love tenderly the caress of imagined words on the back of my skull

cotton hands, warm light, keep the light warm, keep the warmth glowing, it’s just a few words, it’s just a few more words