tumbleweed roundup
when i dissapear , the red lines
mean nothing. don't you see that ash?
i return i
don't belong i am not
feeling so well these day but i
try to say hello when i'm not
controlled by suburban machinery.
what did i do this week? missed u n u n every day aching
to come to your arms to feel complete.
the /missing/ed roll off into the desert
everyone needs their forty days
and some just roll on to big wide ocean
never to return4er.
i became a new lover
to my lover he has been thru
much with me and still the seas move
and still the marchness blows
moving so stasis won't discharge me.
systems of control , freedom as betrayal.
the oak pollen swirls thru my lungs as air
there's a joint's worth of pot on the plant
from last year. is it time to smoke what was allowed
to grow? i'm saving it for when we get together again.
how long does it take for the plant to cure/that's when
we see you hey
finch
crow
chaos when ? i think jack n jenni
would let us come to them. i got corporate time saved
it waits for depletion patient as a pentinent. summer's
coming up and i can renew it, as long as i nap
before you get off work and come hold me again.
longing shoots rise into could have beens
into are/s and aeries and air that makes room
for you. just for you
waving over there in fire.don't mind the red lines
they're removable, really. and your mind is no mind
to not be a fool with. really. i don't know
what meaning can come out of this until i collapse
back into my self #3457823091 after
nine o nine. i can change. that's what the laurel sang
thru vocal cats and rabbits rebirth
coming quicker now at the end of my kalpa.
spirng 0! spring you are
the seed of my seed's desire, beginning.
seasons that aren't coulds.
seasons that are clouds.
on the day i was born they was passin out
strength, hand rolled in naturally cured leaves.
today i was watching rain thru a scarf. suddenly you and i
swim without getting wet. jump from the second story
porch to the third. spiderman's everyday hero,
the full moon a crocus held
between the fingers on trees.
spilling white ink over freckles.
how lover is over w/an "l". irony
is my air. what's yours/
poetry. is this what we write? yes, but they ain't your daddy's
poems. now are they?
go- if you cannot,
define new entranceways
for returning. go if all the openings
are apples you've spit out .
go then go. it would not be me
blooming for you under the mirror.
on the little nerd guy's bike
the air blew bright cold on his face,
he did no
recursive ambience of the finish
of the whirl
in a frozen plate of existence
like gold upon the burl . like golden
afternoons spent in the company of rain and caves
a cab ride thru pines to your smile.
sometimes wind visited the outskirts of marabella's village.
the goings and comings of the twelve quarters
were food for the citizens during high holidaze.
they scampered like squirrels at play
for bits of styrofoam on the golf course, over concrete
skateboard parks with snow that year just
the way you fell and never got to see
the inside of her thigh.
and she looked for photos on days
when the moon was gibbous past fifty percent of nothings.
the way money wanted to make you slave
and then you did and then you die. how she refutes it
with disdain like the house slave she became.
and what was lynze doing with her rune of X
her scantly clad sex her nights in white
you thought satin you thought satan you thought
of the dreams she was making the love she was waking
the chronicles, baking. but mostly she was gathering
moss and cornnuts, ignoring cerebus behind her.
cigarettes in an ash on the floor.
and what was ashley doing a
fin de something , over and over
a fine distinction of rice and clover.
a manic dance with manic lover o
death come and take us all
because to love
is mere release and fall.
she wants to be the
one who opens, closes, absorbs
its self into its essence. the pitiful
way newspapers gather under her feet
addictions waiting for defeat. do you remember when
you told me i was so strong and it hurt me to have to be that way
core of iron holding up the mountain how i just want
the ache in my shoulder to cease how i want
to be worn away by a tiny wind, blown snuff against my peak
sometimes clear frozen water, a ripple,
that weak, fragile against the sun. sometimes i have a son.
my precious teen and the all things he could have been
swimming in a day time sleep, and how i want to live and meet
him on the other side, my favorite guy
who survived the deadly song of spring's strong shoot.
to see if i am in his root.
as ivy also grows on the same to be cool twilight
to fall way past cliché just one ever time
to stick the struggle of saying and naming what it feels
thru you, to name, however beautiful or horrible
feels thru you
its dragon essence, abysmally sad, like a north Korean vapor mist
how it lifts into my undeclined slavery and indeciphered mentat
taskt w/ makeing redd linez apeare ine evry coaleasecne prufe uv
sumthing shreded nd beleevable, beezelbub.
success! in the last two lines before the great white page scrolls up
the way it sux all photons from the beam
while missing all the waves.
a ware of persistence
darkens all troughs.
she never returns.
she never says never except when
she wants something to happen. a quiet prayer
written on the inside of an acacia seed.
the snow of the palm is yellow and grainy.
truth is engels and rorty in a streetfight. philosophy
is best left to sophists and we
who think too much.
goddamn girl, don'tcha have a tv?
it never responds
thru dark him, this rarely
latticed candle light against a leather jacket
along the contours of a Friday, unreported
in your past, never degraded out of your fantasies,
into your words. It understood this, but wanted
to go beyond what you accused
it of always being, just stray
syntactic disportion, the stupidity
and disproportion of your seething inner mind
it didn't appreciate being put behind other arts
as if it were last years model or some niche market
that you didn't want to visit cuz of the funny smells
and the way the guy with the dreads penetrated
up to the balcony of the house of blues
making you shake to the beat of his drum. his drum.
the muse she likes to work in twos
multiples there of, but one is two is all of you
-- tumbleweed's three dee glove.
when you could have been doing music
or echoing back
the sound of a wound-up
music box as it started
to unwind
into solace, the sound
going downward
and slower
in tone,
or you could have been
loading the laundry, a normal kind of day
filled with calling friends, family, scrub the corners
where mold has collected, make shiny
the things life has infected. harvest the pot plant
water the clematis and african violet which refuse to flower
and in the rain outside
daisies from last years
seed bloom
like an enormously
nearing
thigh
the harness darkens against your auburn side,
you start to observe again:
I listen to Alice in Chains,
you listen to Lou Reed, it was always
hard for us to get along that well together.
and it's all too much to read thru god murmurs
the tomes ive laid on the plaza, the bird dropping essays,
oh all these notes written in lipstick on my mirror saying
i love you remember me oh when you have a chance
when you're done with your marketing for the day, when you've
filled the forms and written the last sentence of your depositional decay.
the outer skin of rain
smoke blown thru smoke,
applicable to anyone, fingerprinting
thinking as dreaming , a methusologistic
nexturing in textures laid with grout and pores
you understood these rules
applied to you as
cut
in sections
as intaglio. how you love the sound
but want to deny it meaning
so that you may give the pome your own.
and rules. ;P. still don't like em. pluto turns me
upside down and mars takes a swing. connects.
it's a homerun down the alleys , a blurred photograph
of you and i
escaping
if only you had to will and the lack
of body to go there. oh korea, the kim chi we shared
in the shelter of an awning in seoul wafts as does
the orange blossom on the edge of nineteen, combine
into heady soup if i could just find a spoon a mancible a way
to eat this all, again, at the happy joy luck buffet.
o we do go on and on. the moments spent here
are burst orchids, purple dandelion, gull glidden into
the waiting fry, the sandolista of your eye. i remember natalka
i remember how you tried to show me what you know
how waiting sessions fly around your eyes
and you open and swallow without volition.
how benediction is diction with benefit.
the bestowing of reality on the ghost.
i miss that i am too wrapped up in getting older
and pulling the cotton off the plants is gettin tuff for this weary
flesh but i put my fingers thru their paces think of brighter deeper places...
think of paul and crow, chaos and h, justin n snow,
making their inner metaphors youth and how they have so far to go
to get to where you and i are, in the gauntlets of food service industry entry level
dues paying the electric bill paying the water bill paying the couch in static and pledges
of undying rout. surviving all this to find out it doesn't end even if your quarters
turn out to have the lastest in technology. the way flesh demands it pound. the way
bankers live like wolves, and jakals roam your mailboxes. it's taken me all day to get this far.
sleep beckons like mist on the river koi. but i can't rest yet. there's a boat i tow
with moses sleeping swaddled and quiet, nd i'm movin him along
to dancer's place where pharoah would never think of looking, that fool poet
and his shamanic orgies kept to do a bidding god's as willing to put on his own flesh.
oh king and i , kind and eye. the rusted root cellars of the jam, the pulse of drum on flesh
and how it makes puppets jerk like a real boyss and girlss
i do nt know if i'll even be able to read thru this all. hey 2 jack. where u been?
i miss you when you stay away too long. you might be dead for all we phone.
and djuana my friend, a busy bookend, living and doing and making , i look at you slantly
give you a grantly, and moving and swimming without and within.
i know where eden went and sent
a message here to me. it said the apple
never falls too far from the tree.
but it was said in such a way
my mind it was enlightened.
i miss the way anti cliche
made me slap my head, doh! how did scott put it?
how she puts into words things i didn't know i knew.
yeah, like that. don't you miss that 2? i do.
it's almost to speak of
something, this making it last forever
in the moment feeling . . .
