Gave you
Thank you Gave up Same to you Brave you Stubborn & Brave you less than two so much more than one Oh, well. Too quiet: We, two. Vulnerable and not. close. Then, too close. Like water we stay close just close enough.
0 Comments
Pfft
like a cloud pfftin' along, a pointless cloud with a list of reasons, brewing not ready to fall. Shapeless just white and fluffy pfftin' on the blue rail of wind the other clouds mysterious just white and fluffy. Pfft and puff while the water comes up. Pfft and puff collide with a fluff. Pfft and puff it don't matter much. Droves: a few are heavier than most, a few are the lighter of the light, and sometimes they cling so that they form something more. and they are all pointless in the usual June air, pointless in a soft wispy way, pointless because they just are emptily gliding in the emptiest bay. . Thank you.
Praise you. though I never said to you what I wanted too. This distance crushing, as in crushable as in: I like you; so let's pretend, that way we are not through. For the sake of this red-breasted brown-feathered bird, you are cute. For the sake of the lobby being full, I won't blush blue. You take my cup and fill it. I'm crushed by you. Pretend and 'cause I don't want the real you. Public you and public I: public us; quiet and looking deep into ourselves. Mediate me page, mediate my dull soul; let her notice my imaginative please. Mediate me and don't crinkle, please. While I while a-while, sitting alone, where the bird spoke goodbye and flew home, I while a-while and bring this poem to an (I think you and I are...) close. Today:
it is raining and the rain is my teacher, my soothsayer, and my mind is just the rain falling over and over, veiling a figure. Really: the rain is a perfect nothing to me, and to my body it coerces away the nervous memory, the wet sensitivities, it consoles the past, it splashes alongside those splashes I made from failing. I listen: ironic applause, incessant clapping meant for me, who wants so much but remits, for a preference in staying dry. Humming: the rain, and my body's frail, humming like a bird whose heart is still absently humming its wet feathers 'til they fly. It rains: outside, and in here is a song, and the two would bond, but beads fleet the skin, over and under, knowing that if they did come together, if they did touch, the figure would melt, my world would flood. And, finally, the heavens
open, and I am writing by only their light and memory, with the fireflies' occasional bursting. I see little: these words are but a gleam, and while the machine of man tries to crush me river waves are clapping, lent from a Gaia given firmament in the ground. Sweet mortality. The firefly has a question: "are you dreaming?" Of her? Yes. I am. She's lovely. She was
made of Sand. She was sand. Sandy to her hair which grew and fell. Her legs were the sand not legs. From her belly-button down a beach, a soft beach where he couldn't help but want to curl up and press his head. The sea, the tide, wanting to know her face because on every side she's hidden, she has let her hair down, lying there because he is already in the sand, already asleep and sound, evenly spreading his hands, her hair. He dreams of rivulets cascading, sandy beads, patterns in her moving skin, moving down for gravity, towards him mounding at the hips and spreading from her pebbled groin where he's been drawn. she strokes under beautiful hair, he ebbs pressing to the furthest wet abrade. Happiness is
beer and/or wine and/or liquor and cigarettes (if you smoke) after a long hard day of work after deciding not to do laundry or mop or do yoga or to go running after a crush says "hi" and you haven't a clue how to push it forward 'cause your awkward (this stage is the purest anyway). and having had stimulants you're just a manic ecstatic smile. Goddamn pure joy's realizing most people try and you can help them by being good to yer self. To someone else, you see, it's happening: obviously they're "different", by the way they refuse to be indifferent. smiling, radiates. They are okay, they are happy, they are that cool, Honest, Let go. Even more damn happy thinking about my mother who always plays by her writing, drawing squares with arrows around the words, under-lining and over-lining and boxing and returning, to the first square, going over it again, emboldening the arrow over - under - lining and talking on the phone about a strike-out that should be double underlined but only if that which was crossed really belongs considering her friend on the other line's reiterated posit. Two arrows. what does it even mean? what does it all mean when you are happy? Infinite arrows. a strike-out turned in- to a pair of infinite errors, to strike-outs! to the fact that the word (and the world) remains! (boxed now, probably) (unless you smother et!) can still be un-. to the booze! oh, ho, steal. to the muse! to the guitar! to the neighbor who drinks and chats the ambrosia! to the beer bringing hunger! so that you Make dinner. Call it art. And, browse albums where you see A friend's photo: They have a lover by the one side, and you cry cause you're senti- mental. Until a phone call: for porch beers but with my dear (though I'm not theirs). With them (all) and conversation Happiness is. it's a shame that you're in love with her.
No it isn't More like it's . Just so .Shame . . . No. different rather un-im - agine - inable .Little not lost. 'cause edible bull horn scorn bed hu mun !hoora - ad.in - ept. back down to being while a hundred cullular curriers connect in real corners passing by with such stupid power-envy ascertaining there: American Dollars hexed into mash ir hop & wheatand/iroats and/ir nut dregs twistin' tada lint list a wimen whistlin' imid kissin Where I don't belong. casting One as a rain door hums away in this mind soaked for wetter tastes a labia. Trying to lose shame it won't I Today it is my turn to take care of Grandpa.
He sits at a table next to a window. Illuminating, the frame faces east towards the mountains. Quietly he looks out while I prepare cobbed corn for a snack. Grandpa doesn't eat much but he's always liked corn. I butter two halves, place them on two plates then bring them over setting one in front of him. I sit. Nothing is said. I think I notice a hint of smile as he looks at his corn. Picking the gilded rind up he takes a little bite. I eat slow, like him. It is silent, except that the quiet activity of our eating is like a secret conversation. I don't want to disturb our sacred moment. I think he has to have finished because he sets his cob down. Those remaining kernels are flat and wrinkled and he's gone to looking out the window again. Green mountain. I pick up our plates and move to the kitchen while thinking of putting another cob on. Instead, I hesitate in a gaze directed at the few remaining untouched cylinders in a plastic bag I seal. I put them away. As the dishwater fills I glance at Grandpa, without movement, without sound he just gazes out. It must be his lover he dreams of, his wife who passed on? The noise of the faucet while I brood over how to tell him that I really admire him -- I should have been closer as an adult. Now, I am a proud to be his grandson. The sink now full, I step into another room and have a moment. With Grandpa here life's whole pace is tangible and when I return I see there is a mostly eaten cob in the pearl white dish rack. It rests neatly against the sidewall. I look to Grandpa who looks back at me. We both smile. I with tears in my eyes. plead of hem
wrinkling a truss of dress will drop to ball its edges terse with lips wrung cling- clung threads in them layering strings over-strung and snapped are snipped tears pull the others weaver-woven yard of line restitching a defect holds, it tethers chords as fabrics lulled, unravel distaff-spindle parts of cloth revealing fleshes dressed mesh the sexes covering the frayed fusses of hems cooer-cooing |