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I remember the contours of your thought
more than any one thing. Quiet smiles,
drawn out and peppered with tiny points
that irritate and vex, a succulent seasoning
always landed in the best place by surprise.
And the deeper voice, longing to escape
its uniformity, buried in a thousand tasks.
I am left wondering, is confusion cured
by embracing that reasonable state,
where destinations, made to order, fit
snugly as I remember you sitting there? Or
is it worse knowing all that must be done
from now, on past tomorrow, and further,
to replace confusion with a narrow madness
aligned automatically clear out to the end?
Whatever the cause, now you are free
to live beyond an intention only the smallest
fraction left to yourself, ever desired
to begin with – free as you always are
when growth and uncertainty are one,
and the delayed fear of an unknown heart
is revealed, beating as it always appears
but stronger, confident in the new chance.
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It is inevitable – time corrects
everything imagined
The young, believing their freshness
withstands the test, ignorant darkness
emerges even from the smallest belief,
in contrary to hope, reinforce their own
statuesque solid, jaw set, intending toward
the future unburdened by the old,
yet bound soon to crumble as their own
new relic, erected in squares, bronzed
immobile, awaiting the newest young
to be pulled down in judgment with all
the small corrections admitted might be
Sunlight on the grass
Falls to a random green shoot
Without knowing choice
what fast wit is there
in stillness? what
completeness is found
through followers?
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It is comforting, your concern
being conveniently machined
to fit this container
as you plumb it
confident as an artificer
versed in human shapes,
poured into tired forms, as
if passion, even shaded,
remained for any of us.
But it is gone, used up. Years
of prospecting, deep shafts
drilled through the mantle,
striking dark gold pumped
up and out until you find,
surprisingly, the earth is flawed
by its own emptiness
And so I confess, that the veins
beneath this mantle continue
their flow, slow and unabated,
unreachable by such tools
requiring firmament
to grasp a position –
and may, as a curvature accepts
the weight of objects to move them,
simply observe the circular motion
as a mathematic effect of such effort.
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Sound coming from speakers
sounds like thunder deeper
because it is not real
and there are things mixed
in with children voices
and birds who are not fond
of storms
a radio out in the far Midwest
that no longer exists tuning in
frequencies, tuning in, a nostalgic
dance with electronic scrapings
in the picturesque wheat field
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it is strange
not knowing
your enemy
who must be
found hiding
growing ever
larger in dark
foreign caves
or not so
limited
spread to all
who are forced
to play designs
leaped to arms
in brainless rage
waged ongoing
in a coffered heft
it is strange
not knowing
your enemy
who must be
found hiding
growing ever
larger in dark
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The extent of my sweetness: a hard
green rectangle flavored fake apple –
a Christmas left-over found under
dirty white couch cushions, disturbed
by all the intentness previously lost,
burned in that I don't give a shit smoke.
Baby prattles with their “la la me me”
indistinguishable from any other, but
through a unique timbre, their specific
need, even wrapped in concert with
others of the same ilk, “la la me me”,
we, and they, not us; la la, ha ha;
I have watched bees zoom around
each other while having nothing
to say, except “buzz, buzz” as bees
do, forgetting the yard while flying
in their tight circles – the stamens
dripping in colors for their legs,
the pesticide cloud, or the microwave
chatter beamed through a hundred eyes,
and they go on, on like thin magnets
– the la la, ha ha, buzz of everything
but.
Thin little dead things on automatic trails
mapped already down in a few spins,
splat in your own color today if you can
survive any actual sight of its true inside.
I am too busy gathering my own roadkill
back as one body to be eaten of itself –
more freely again since the last mad leap.
I wander between rooms
finding myself suddenly
occupied with drudgery
kept from realizing how
bad I need what I don't got
Stupid tasks that
wouldn't fool anyone
I set myself on cuz
I'm dumb enough
to be tricked to forgetting
I ever needed that
The house gets cleaner
when I want it
I find old chests full of
pictures and writing,
like looking at a stranger
I feel I am making lines
straight lines that are clean
to wander lightly in
and lose something
I'm trying to forget
I am not myself
right now I don't know
if I will remember
I only think
long automatic
thoughts today
numb. no sleep
automatically
wanting to feel
breathing in smoke
deep and full in
blown slowly out
just a little sometimes
oh, yes, a lot randomly
triggered. tired
so tired I am hoping
tomorrow I might
forget why I am
needing
I wanted to be able
to say so much more
today – what I heard
helped me. thank you
graciously i hope
