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
Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s