i let your story stay with you
or...
silence
i can't really feel to write
unless there is only the background noise
wind cinemas, chiming leaves, the vid game bass
snore of a child. off in the distance
a white bird curves in to the air of basketball playas
in some future time the phone rings
it's the house in the hatteras
making bread for the coming attractions.
it needs instructions, a map.
i search the laurel leaves for big reasons
but they are only whispering
in a subdimensional spawing river.
this is collaspable mess. the itenerant chaos.
if i were to write what we will not say
i'd speak to you from the seat of love.
buti've been told how passe that is. how dis
believable. that my love causes your pain.
thorns on your crown. so we'll leave it at that.
thistle in the train bracken.
speakin poet number 5009
he would have been
but he didn't because it was never
enough , the warm yellow glow
the cold blue gleam. he had
to have mystery
solved
keys made, then tossed.
he remembers all the lost
entrances, returns to the gate
over and over
but never goes in. he cradeles
in his tongue the unnameable
a curdle against the night air
bathed in the a mist
only he can make.
she widens the gap between
what we know and what we see
so that we may view these interstices
in microscopic cornucopia
with the eye of eresis
what bakes is a crust
filled with your choice
and her voice.
she grabs the brush
hints she will paint
with her own blood
the color is white
on white when a flame
is held beneath. lemon
joice and salt. the taste
of caligraphy.
why did god
for i know there is god
i see her sitting
at my table between john
and the baby, a holy guest throwing
basketballs into the gravy, and of course
there's thunder
some magnificent trading of babe
ruth cards with a fifth
or some other pokemon pararphenalia
and billy june at the stove
frying eggs in the very skillet she killed
the old coon that was raiding the coop and takin her babies'
food right out of their mouths
she has no cotton with the animal
right's activists wears the tail
as her winter coat collar and god he
says let me see that coat so billy june
turns down the grease and heads off into the back
to get the item and god winks
watch this, and billy june
screeches then heavy pounding thrumps
she runs right thru the kitchen past john and the baby past
the eggs and god right out the back door
which slams
against the clapboard then
then pings back to the sound of god wheezing
he's been laughing so hard and the baby
she'slaughing too and john looks per
plexed but amused, finds himself with
hesistant chuckle he balmes it on the babe
she's so adorable
in her high chair watching god watching
down the hallway as a momma coon
works her way to the still vibrating door
trailing a camel hair coat filled
with a litter of pups.
i've been to india
i have thru indiana thru new
york your eyes and forgive me
i took a bit of your soil
and nematodes i thought it would look good
in the grecian glass bottle i stole
from the base of the last lost parthenon
nest nexted tothe dry roses of rasputin
i am not a thief i am
a curator. can't you see
the difference?
in the dim jungle of translational geist
you go exploring. there is a tiger.
there is always a tiger. this time it wears
a short skirt. her eyes are like the river
where you grew. you embrace her sense the aura
of her lips. then you wake up. fuck!
he's always on some ship. always rowing
or sailing or drifing always tacking and steering
finding the channels you left behind
or the ones you might want to visit he's always
on the water. it's because he loves flight.
wehn she held the plate out to him
his eyes were golden a place she wanted
to fall into and core up to. she could not speak.
she called him daddy. she could speak
but never talk. she did not understand the language.
the wind blew an owl to her window.
she sat for a while with the glass between them
watching. thenshe opened the sash.
the owl didn't move because it was
never alive. it was a wind sock from the neighbor's house.
the black carrion crow she prefers
to call chicken
hawk coasts on the wond over the pond.
when it sees some accident
it will land and devour the corpse.
this is her totem.
ah the blankets of winer a winter's diviner a shining
example of noise and china. you the bull
me the gandhi blown graduate of grand pianos,the nose
of the elepants sticking out of the plants
i laid in the garden last fall.
she follows me down the epicenter's path
tied to the tinkling bells of tiberius
we grab pistadores and conquistadors, the belly
dancer's toe rings and rattle on our of there.
she never could keep up. this was due to her
drug use but i forgave her all sins and washed her
in the my river stix. that made the mix so missy
we bondled the last of the wheat,
head off down the mountain
to trade for ochre and cobalt. the indigo
sky was sly as she lifted the last of her lashes
and flashed us her mastical sabbath. we say
shabbat in the present tense, pitch tents on the face
of permithian fools, and settle in for a nice long nap.
and there is in all this//where.. i
you know me//i..
sit a vessel for e/mot/ ion
pain . joy. but alwaze ill.
undertow of laundry laudenum
breaking waves cold.ness. my fate
my love/r my face my cold cold dest,i.ny.
my mirror
you
she is dreaming again
a race, a satellite, a clown's face.
they all enter her through bird chirp
and pole sit. she steps back steps
through the river. it isn't a river
at all, fanciful pictures she's
designing right now to stave off the taste
of addiction. to smother the smell she inhales.
she owns it. all of it. she will not let you
take hold. this is her pointilistic movement.
you may watch.
and if the existential should prove
to be the warmest blanket, what then?
high blown gnosticism and a lilliputian
candy vendor? he buries all thought of beret
in hooray, rides the channel's fast flat flip.
he's hunting water,tho he doesn't know it yet.
he packages the angst then recurses. packages the angst
then recurses. packages the angstelangelious
and breaks free, looks around it's the same old pundits
the same old pound.
and she //they move
as a pair bi//polar
attraction trading yin
and yang and yen
something to believe in believing
in all of it therefore none of it.
they move toward the chasm
in the rock, whitewatering
tracing declivities
and moon cycle.
tides of wheat embrace them.
she dances and drinks and writes
another dance. she is majik
when she blows. she is wind and its vortex.
he rises.
listed and in short form, obelisk cat. he calls to them
but they're not home where home remembers. he draws on skin
then posts it on the internet. his rain begins.
silence
i can't really feel to write
unless there is only the background noise
wind cinemas, chiming leaves, the vid game bass
snore of a child. off in the distance
a white bird curves in to the air of basketball playas
in some future time the phone rings
it's the house in the hatteras
making bread for the coming attractions.
it needs instructions, a map.
i search the laurel leaves for big reasons
but they are only whispering
in a subdimensional spawing river.
this is collaspable mess. the itenerant chaos.
if i were to write what we will not say
i'd speak to you from the seat of love.
buti've been told how passe that is. how dis
believable. that my love causes your pain.
thorns on your crown. so we'll leave it at that.
thistle in the train bracken.
speakin poet number 5009
he would have been
but he didn't because it was never
enough , the warm yellow glow
the cold blue gleam. he had
to have mystery
solved
keys made, then tossed.
he remembers all the lost
entrances, returns to the gate
over and over
but never goes in. he cradeles
in his tongue the unnameable
a curdle against the night air
bathed in the a mist
only he can make.
she widens the gap between
what we know and what we see
so that we may view these interstices
in microscopic cornucopia
with the eye of eresis
what bakes is a crust
filled with your choice
and her voice.
she grabs the brush
hints she will paint
with her own blood
the color is white
on white when a flame
is held beneath. lemon
joice and salt. the taste
of caligraphy.
why did god
for i know there is god
i see her sitting
at my table between john
and the baby, a holy guest throwing
basketballs into the gravy, and of course
there's thunder
some magnificent trading of babe
ruth cards with a fifth
or some other pokemon pararphenalia
and billy june at the stove
frying eggs in the very skillet she killed
the old coon that was raiding the coop and takin her babies'
food right out of their mouths
she has no cotton with the animal
right's activists wears the tail
as her winter coat collar and god he
says let me see that coat so billy june
turns down the grease and heads off into the back
to get the item and god winks
watch this, and billy june
screeches then heavy pounding thrumps
she runs right thru the kitchen past john and the baby past
the eggs and god right out the back door
which slams
against the clapboard then
then pings back to the sound of god wheezing
he's been laughing so hard and the baby
she'slaughing too and john looks per
plexed but amused, finds himself with
hesistant chuckle he balmes it on the babe
she's so adorable
in her high chair watching god watching
down the hallway as a momma coon
works her way to the still vibrating door
trailing a camel hair coat filled
with a litter of pups.
i've been to india
i have thru indiana thru new
york your eyes and forgive me
i took a bit of your soil
and nematodes i thought it would look good
in the grecian glass bottle i stole
from the base of the last lost parthenon
nest nexted tothe dry roses of rasputin
i am not a thief i am
a curator. can't you see
the difference?
in the dim jungle of translational geist
you go exploring. there is a tiger.
there is always a tiger. this time it wears
a short skirt. her eyes are like the river
where you grew. you embrace her sense the aura
of her lips. then you wake up. fuck!
he's always on some ship. always rowing
or sailing or drifing always tacking and steering
finding the channels you left behind
or the ones you might want to visit he's always
on the water. it's because he loves flight.
wehn she held the plate out to him
his eyes were golden a place she wanted
to fall into and core up to. she could not speak.
she called him daddy. she could speak
but never talk. she did not understand the language.
the wind blew an owl to her window.
she sat for a while with the glass between them
watching. thenshe opened the sash.
the owl didn't move because it was
never alive. it was a wind sock from the neighbor's house.
the black carrion crow she prefers
to call chicken
hawk coasts on the wond over the pond.
when it sees some accident
it will land and devour the corpse.
this is her totem.
ah the blankets of winer a winter's diviner a shining
example of noise and china. you the bull
me the gandhi blown graduate of grand pianos,the nose
of the elepants sticking out of the plants
i laid in the garden last fall.
she follows me down the epicenter's path
tied to the tinkling bells of tiberius
we grab pistadores and conquistadors, the belly
dancer's toe rings and rattle on our of there.
she never could keep up. this was due to her
drug use but i forgave her all sins and washed her
in the my river stix. that made the mix so missy
we bondled the last of the wheat,
head off down the mountain
to trade for ochre and cobalt. the indigo
sky was sly as she lifted the last of her lashes
and flashed us her mastical sabbath. we say
shabbat in the present tense, pitch tents on the face
of permithian fools, and settle in for a nice long nap.
and there is in all this//where.. i
you know me//i..
sit a vessel for e/mot/ ion
pain . joy. but alwaze ill.
undertow of laundry laudenum
breaking waves cold.ness. my fate
my love/r my face my cold cold dest,i.ny.
my mirror
you
she is dreaming again
a race, a satellite, a clown's face.
they all enter her through bird chirp
and pole sit. she steps back steps
through the river. it isn't a river
at all, fanciful pictures she's
designing right now to stave off the taste
of addiction. to smother the smell she inhales.
she owns it. all of it. she will not let you
take hold. this is her pointilistic movement.
you may watch.
and if the existential should prove
to be the warmest blanket, what then?
high blown gnosticism and a lilliputian
candy vendor? he buries all thought of beret
in hooray, rides the channel's fast flat flip.
he's hunting water,tho he doesn't know it yet.
he packages the angst then recurses. packages the angst
then recurses. packages the angstelangelious
and breaks free, looks around it's the same old pundits
the same old pound.
and she //they move
as a pair bi//polar
attraction trading yin
and yang and yen
something to believe in believing
in all of it therefore none of it.
they move toward the chasm
in the rock, whitewatering
tracing declivities
and moon cycle.
tides of wheat embrace them.
she dances and drinks and writes
another dance. she is majik
when she blows. she is wind and its vortex.
he rises.
listed and in short form, obelisk cat. he calls to them
but they're not home where home remembers. he draws on skin
then posts it on the internet. his rain begins.
posted by hiccup at 10:11 AM
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