Friday, March 29, 2013

To be told it is time


when I step outside of here
my head no longer glued to this
and strapped to the edges of things
or even fanned so that cool words
having more to say than water
clinging in desperate droplets
to the idea of winter
imprint themselves here

I will be alive and well
and you’ll remember me
for the years it took to explain
the way in which you took your toll
on the everyday

selling short for your own kindness
things that could have
seared further into your belly
or your heart or mine
watching the flames’ tongues dance
in new formations speaking
clearly it is not for you to say
I will think later
that I am right in this

and from there your words
will open like wings
or like the lips of a wound
a flower which holds
so much fragrance
that it makes tongues speak
catching their words
in a kiss forming waiting
to be told it is time

to be told it is true
you don’t have to come
you only did and no matter

it is simply a need
solitude craved for nights on end
in which you burned for this

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Bone Density



Winter highways give me bone density tests on the daily.
They say my bones are denser than my head can handle.
I wait for words, set fire to the sound a sheep makes in my brain.
It’s the kind of flame that heals us from our loss of touch,

From a swirling nothingness that follows its own path.
Those grains of sand my mind still knows will turn to glass,
And they’re crystallizing in my eye like bits of light that someday
Will have something to say about the questions no one can answer.

It’s still a question of what to do with density in the skull.
Why your bones wonder why you tell them what to ask.
Why you love the type of sun that hangs just outside your eye
And you wish you had wings: the most deafening quiet on earth.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Apology to a Mexican matchbook


I wanted to tap the source
That cat’s meow spelled differently
reaching shadow water
golden ripples that encroach on gold
torn up sheets of this
an animal in my brain 
a glowing kingdom
or a waterline of ants
trickling down across this conquered vision-landscape
while Columbus ached
for something worse

Youth


waiting for places
where the leafwords speak
without the gaze of wolfeyes
altering their meaning
in concrete earthquakes
waving to meeting flags
from a desert in a yawning mouth
calling the dance
being stars from close up
when the gods are blankets
that fall on our heads

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Burning airplanes


free in the wild three day moment
where your words grow wings like beanstalks
if you’re made of rock
you’ll be made to shake off feathers
sacks of sadness from your eyes
you can see tired into the clouds of your hair
it’s been a day for blue upsets
and carryon dreams

Emergency


new poems thanks for reading you are sure to grow wings at some point next week STOP this is a telegram for calculators growing roots in the sky and for other invitations... next time you speak there will be cause for celebration STOP delegates from around the corner STOP there are dragonflies in your eyes STOP disintegration and smoke will not stop the colors of wildfires from growing roots in your hearts STOP this has been a way of saying things will remain the same for a while STOP include this in your bio STOP next time you're satisfied the way things turn out will be your next cause for cashing in your calliope for a fountain pen and a castle in the crags STOP

Sunfall


othersides come up out of nowhere
my heart red-brown like the hum inside paints
where is it you said you’d go
when the furniture started talking
I assume it’s a place where you can speak
to quieting-down colors
in a softly spellcasting pose I think
its time we let the blood shed its heat upon stars
and feel the sun fall seeking that drip of golden soul eyes

In a broken sunday looking glass


missing places never been
in dissolving footstep mathematics
bringing leaf sheets
edges on a wild calendar
for sleeping through
into wide open suns
past wingbeats
moments
that are all you can do
to keep the dragonfly propeller
out of your matted words

Things in a brick wall


smooth apologies
for riding into the night
without consent
as if I were camouflaged
and dancing in a circle of horns forever
stars in a burning pattern
around the song-range of snow
your radioactive eyes
acknowledging
the edge of a thing
like a wall strewn with lovelettering
glancing over your shoulder
for the thieves of paradise

Conspiring psychic (or a secret’s bones)


exhaust from this
fortunes fumes
eradicate witnesses
to this here calliope cashing in
but don’t look down
it’s first to instate
the feeling that secrets
with a life of their own
don’t own the heart
or the tendrils of this radioactive forest speaking

Fourteen


I’m hiding transcendental flowers
in survival kits – automobiles
that glide through the arms and mock the mind
on alternate days. I’ll be sued because
I love to break the silence and run on clouds,
screaming for your secret place.
And the precarious urge
looks you in the eye and knows your hurt specifically,
points it out on a blank map – it’s ridiculous.
I’m asking you to climb into my hand.
I’m giving up balancing
to levitate beyond the voids of words.

Angel


A carpet once laid late at the feet of an angel. It was bashful and red. The angel had wings so she carried it into the late night sky. The angel fell asleep and the carpet wrapped around her to keep her warm. Slowly it began to glow and became the sunrise. Clouds covered it and the angel slept deeper and dreamed and in her dream the sun grew close. While the angel slept it rained and brought the angel and the carpet both back to earth. The angel woke laying on the floor on a tattered carpet. Bits of dust had gathered on it and she looked up and saw the stars. The carpet asked, can we just sit here for a while? And the angel smiled a cherishable smile and said, no let’s fly.

The idea of a clearing


in the sky inside
the sun you desired burns

it is the heat you want
to free you from winter
winter always mocking your nostalgia
the untimely remarks

a spirit not quite vanishing
but unable to grasp itself
you will become familiar
with the idea of a clearing

which is most like summer
not that this is separate
from the ones you love
or how to reach them

in the sky inside
the sun you desired burns 

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Fretted Instrument


When you’re feeling
            oversweetly moved
by the quiet hum
            of passing traffic,
there’s always
            an uncertain anxiety,
and tassels growing listless
            in the breeze

to keep you feeling
            like you’re tied
to a reality,
            or at least longing
to be held in check.
            At least
there’s movement
            in uncertainty –

it befits you
            to feel a certain shock
at your own audacity,
            or maybe your humility
is beaming toward
            the surface.
Maybe you should have
            thought

twice, before creating
            the conditions
for advice. If you
            depart
before we have a chance
            to say
goodbye, at least you
            know

that there’s nothing in
            teaching
that should ever resemble
            someone’s pride
being shattered. If you
            want to know,
this has been a pleasant
            encounter

for me, and I hope
            one day
these oversweet
            sentiments are
just coming to a close
            when we meet
again, somewhere outside
            of here.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Deathbed


Escape into convenient dangers.
Witness the very real threat of a vanishing sunrise,
of your accountability.
If nothing comes of this startling obituary,
I’ll stay and talk with you
as the tunnel is slowly illuminated,
as your caught in frustration, in a web of stars.
See me as a true friend,
cast aside for your tragic endearment to failure.
I’m safe with that fact. And no second rate merchandise
Will ever make its way into the fragile thicket of your imagination.

Monday, January 7, 2013

White leaves


These audacious blossoms
are a figment of forced observation.
The exhaust for which they feel affection
is nothing greater than your childhood:
you never flew off through the windshield
and Black Friday was never as important as it seemed.
What difference does it make if birds come cunningly,
like trumpets through a wall of angry light;
if the mountains are indeed just shaking out an itch? 
There never were any Indians in Columbus’ America.

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Thicket


Such an unenthusiastic landscape,
To its credit went your daily limp.
The harvest was arbitrary –
What did you expect to find?
This tiny country is a thing of the past,
That seed just the parachute of the first world,
Whose dance meant little more than distraction.
Whose layers of years peering out of houses
Were so quick to leave your sight –
No wonder that sickle never touched the ground,
The ground to whose shoulders
You still attribute your seasonal fatigue.