Before the counting is over, the share is always more than yours. One bird kept, one counted, until the bird in hand no longer seems enough. Why not each and every bush that offers shelter? Why not every bird in the sky, now that claims are getting made? It isn’t that our nature is all that bad. We are cruel and we are greedy. The trouble with counting is that there is always more. Outside our sight, or minds scarcely venture. The kiss, the star, the fish that eludes the catch. A head full of figures, we miss more than we measure. The cluttered constellations reckoned for our crown.
We only live in the feast of the moment. We only feel the crest of the wave. Riding so high we all stand in the stirrups. Running so wild we can hardly ever meet any eye. We will know the wounds of famine, going over every step and stumble. We will know the weight of every hoof, trampled inevitably to the ground. We count, or we don’t, and we fill out what ledgers are left. It is a matter, or it is not yet, the reckoning never settles at enough. You never know what tomorrow might bring, you never know when this fortune will fail you. With everything so uncertain, be certain what you want.
It always ends up coming down to genies, that magic condensing of motive and means, language only wilder once it is loosed. Those riddles and incantations, the clockwork stricture of these equations, that machine with nothing better to do than call down the gods. The shorthand scribbled into shortcuts, the word mistaken for the way. Our abrupt economies so scripted and unreal, numbers among the most imaginary of all the ghost. The glanced at average out with the imagined. Stolen kisses always returned in legions, drops in the ocean, sand upon the shore. The inference only a little closer, the blessing of limits never known. It escapes our calculation, absence of that which never was an absence all the same.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Saturday, September 8, 2012
unmentionables
Strange they do so much of the heavy lifting, there’s so little of them to see. Just a hint of ribbon, a whisper of lace. So little left to hold every thing in place, just that furtive struggle of fabric against flesh. So little left to the imagining, yet the imagination just won’t quit. The subtlety is the sophistication, everything said so succinctly and so well. There are words left, to be sure. It is unsaid, not unsayable. A solemn box, some hint of tissue. Every delicacy has its demands.
The stricture holds the tongue in place, turning into scripture through these urgent, ardent repetitions. Say any name long enough, something is bound to answer. Wealth conserves our ignorance while poverty strains indignant. Plaintive crosses and endearing charms, the way of flesh always in the winding down. The whole convention all hint and hide, the slow gaze and the careful mouth. The entire tradition dependent on knowing the signs. Stopping for a moment when the signs say stop. Going until the signs say otherwise. The law lingers around the borders, the letter never held for long.
Peel away these dull particulars. Bear the wary burden of these suches and these sooths. Feel the air rush in as your dress falls away. Always that flush surprise of how very much more less becomes. Discretion gives way to distraction, the abrupt silence that erupts every time you enter the room. The weight of every stare presses against the fact of flesh. All the veils and pedestals shameless paraphernalia of the heavy tread of a hurried heart. All words and etiquette cut from the cloth of that delayed reveal. Say what you want, you can never say enough.
The stricture holds the tongue in place, turning into scripture through these urgent, ardent repetitions. Say any name long enough, something is bound to answer. Wealth conserves our ignorance while poverty strains indignant. Plaintive crosses and endearing charms, the way of flesh always in the winding down. The whole convention all hint and hide, the slow gaze and the careful mouth. The entire tradition dependent on knowing the signs. Stopping for a moment when the signs say stop. Going until the signs say otherwise. The law lingers around the borders, the letter never held for long.
Peel away these dull particulars. Bear the wary burden of these suches and these sooths. Feel the air rush in as your dress falls away. Always that flush surprise of how very much more less becomes. Discretion gives way to distraction, the abrupt silence that erupts every time you enter the room. The weight of every stare presses against the fact of flesh. All the veils and pedestals shameless paraphernalia of the heavy tread of a hurried heart. All words and etiquette cut from the cloth of that delayed reveal. Say what you want, you can never say enough.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
course correction
You wake up and you’re still at the wheel. No-one can say how long you’ve been driving, no-one knows where you need to be. It won’t stop them from making up stories. It won’t stop them from telling you where to go. Sure you can keep your eyes on the road if you want to. Sure you can tell them where to go yourself. It might not be the road you’ve chosen. It might not be a road at all, but there it is and here you are. Waking up is only part of the battle. Waking up is where you are.
The scenery unfolds, from tree line to strip mall, from asphalt to billboard to hazard lights it goes on and on. There are maps and there are guide books, and sooth both said and unremarked. The head dissembles while the heart denies. The heart provokes while the head plans and plots. You can choose to listen. You can choose to speak. You can choose to drift and to drive. It isn't a matter of miles per hour. It isn't a matter of daylight left to burn. The timer is always on, the count is always down. The road either stick or swerve, one way always spent for another. We only ever believe in one direction at a time.
If you really wanted, you could stop for something. If you really wanted, you could go all night. There probably isn't a reason, there probably isn't a rhyme. Fate most likely didn't need you here, and that voice that told you wasn't really God. Still, it is nice to have a plan. It is nice to have all the numbers ready if you want. Dawn long gone, and the night will soon be tugging at the skirts of dusk. You might as well head towards someplace better. You might as well follow that unseen star, the one with all the wishes wallowing in its wake. There's no telling how long this will take. You might as well follow that dream, now that the dreaming is done.
The scenery unfolds, from tree line to strip mall, from asphalt to billboard to hazard lights it goes on and on. There are maps and there are guide books, and sooth both said and unremarked. The head dissembles while the heart denies. The heart provokes while the head plans and plots. You can choose to listen. You can choose to speak. You can choose to drift and to drive. It isn't a matter of miles per hour. It isn't a matter of daylight left to burn. The timer is always on, the count is always down. The road either stick or swerve, one way always spent for another. We only ever believe in one direction at a time.
If you really wanted, you could stop for something. If you really wanted, you could go all night. There probably isn't a reason, there probably isn't a rhyme. Fate most likely didn't need you here, and that voice that told you wasn't really God. Still, it is nice to have a plan. It is nice to have all the numbers ready if you want. Dawn long gone, and the night will soon be tugging at the skirts of dusk. You might as well head towards someplace better. You might as well follow that unseen star, the one with all the wishes wallowing in its wake. There's no telling how long this will take. You might as well follow that dream, now that the dreaming is done.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
all this fecund magic
I speak the spell of no forgiveness, I loose the breath I took from you. These narrow halls, these apparitions. Plate glass windows and eyes like tombs. Words condense as if on a mirror in a shower. Slick impressions left shining in the gray. I keep this pace in place of ghosts, my tongue dull and slow. I keep this pace beneath the surface, where the writing meets the way. The venom of this lack of charm, never more subtle than failing every strength. Palms pressed to bear the burden. Words burning out little fires in the rain.
Memory eventually steals away the story. The mind shifts away from the heat and the light. We slip into our earnest verses, we slide along each lie. Light condenses against the blinds, painting out a drag and draw. In justice we strive to show each flaw, every sin striped and chained. In clemency we forgive ourselves our blemishes and brawls, our reasons always angel winged. The least crime begun with when the alibi arrives. So starts each seduction, remembering what we please.
I wrote it down first to bend the tension. As if time would abide by the music. As if the declaration was any less because the seams are so hard to see. Then it was the habit held to wear down the adhesion of the order. The blunt incantations stone, cement, and bone. The brickwork winds down into suggestion. That furtive glance, that vacant ache cinched on a bit too tight. The romance told in florid third person so every angle gleams. The light collides inside my eyes, spilling spark and wish. Pressed against a photograph, all this fecund magic.
Memory eventually steals away the story. The mind shifts away from the heat and the light. We slip into our earnest verses, we slide along each lie. Light condenses against the blinds, painting out a drag and draw. In justice we strive to show each flaw, every sin striped and chained. In clemency we forgive ourselves our blemishes and brawls, our reasons always angel winged. The least crime begun with when the alibi arrives. So starts each seduction, remembering what we please.
I wrote it down first to bend the tension. As if time would abide by the music. As if the declaration was any less because the seams are so hard to see. Then it was the habit held to wear down the adhesion of the order. The blunt incantations stone, cement, and bone. The brickwork winds down into suggestion. That furtive glance, that vacant ache cinched on a bit too tight. The romance told in florid third person so every angle gleams. The light collides inside my eyes, spilling spark and wish. Pressed against a photograph, all this fecund magic.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Alice (dreamy weather)
The moon hung so high I could hardly see it, still stunned by all the stars and secret words. The day crawled along, toting that bale, dragging them chains. Dawn drawled by without any complications, my eyes jumping from bird to building. Every brick and feather seen and believed. Every tree and car parked just so, the revelations all small and patient. The mystery worn so thin it all but glows. It dreams and shimmers, pretty as a pile of wishes. If it wasn't for my color-blindness, I would swear it was the color of your eyes.
You are a smile upon a midnight winter, a beacon in a season of ice and ruin. You are the moonstruck cliffs, you are the clockwork tide. You carry a thousand patched up sacraments, the bittersweet trinity of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. You are the smoke and the sear, the rattle and the rail. You are the sweat of love and labor. You are the song set free in the wind. I know you are caught red-handed like the rest of us. I know you leave a trace of trouble upon everyone you meet. Your fingerprints and footfalls have all gone missing. With-in these clumsy margins, the world so broke without.
I am that hour of poison upon the clock of no hope. I am that land where you cast your shadow, walking off into the setting sun. I am the line stricken through, the candle flame lit. I am there in the burning empty hours, written upon the lining of your ghost. Sharper than salt. paler than false pride. My name waits unspoken, an incantation entangled with your tongue. That welt of light that paints the bare flesh of your mornings, that ancient craving amid the savaged bones of your nights. A glistening upon your skin, a crease bourn on your brow. Always there in the clot and flow, carrying your busted crown. Always so close you could call out across the thousand miles. I am with you in this silence, as near as any dream.
You are a smile upon a midnight winter, a beacon in a season of ice and ruin. You are the moonstruck cliffs, you are the clockwork tide. You carry a thousand patched up sacraments, the bittersweet trinity of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. You are the smoke and the sear, the rattle and the rail. You are the sweat of love and labor. You are the song set free in the wind. I know you are caught red-handed like the rest of us. I know you leave a trace of trouble upon everyone you meet. Your fingerprints and footfalls have all gone missing. With-in these clumsy margins, the world so broke without.
I am that hour of poison upon the clock of no hope. I am that land where you cast your shadow, walking off into the setting sun. I am the line stricken through, the candle flame lit. I am there in the burning empty hours, written upon the lining of your ghost. Sharper than salt. paler than false pride. My name waits unspoken, an incantation entangled with your tongue. That welt of light that paints the bare flesh of your mornings, that ancient craving amid the savaged bones of your nights. A glistening upon your skin, a crease bourn on your brow. Always there in the clot and flow, carrying your busted crown. Always so close you could call out across the thousand miles. I am with you in this silence, as near as any dream.
Monday, September 3, 2012
errant
It’s all a blur. From the parking lot to the produce section, it is all odd forms and strange words. Bright colors from the cars to the beverage aisle, slivers of shine pinned to acres of dross. The found poetry of the cereal box, the practiced elegance of the butcher’s case. I move from aisle to aisle, section by section following my script. I pull each item from its place, leaving holes and gaps. There is nothing I want, and little I need. My cart still ends up full.
Look, I know my cup is overflowing. I haven’t been thirsty for years. And the people don’t mean to assail me-- they are ordinary everyday jerks like me, just going about their business. They only seem to think the world turns for them, blocking lanes and shouting dumb words into their smart phones. They only seem to believe they are immortal, crowding a character like me. I navigate through all the lapses and hesitations, calculating the least impediments and the least impeding possible, ignoring the blood bath in my head and ten thousand years of bad habits. I lean into the precipice where all the years of lucky breaks and good history ends, the world painted in such desperate hues. A shopping cart and a pocketful of greenback dollars aren’t enough to secure this purchase.
There are walls of wealth and providence. There are towers of sustenance, mountains made of loosed desire. There are hours burning in the open, sight leaving every eye alone. The list asks on and on, never ended, never emptied. The parking lot clangs with car doors and shopping carts, the tarmac scolded by a loud and caustic crow. The heat crowds the air away, every breath fast food thick and exhaust flavored. The lost cause and the emptied cart, I have nothing that I wanted and less I will ever need. I check each item, I look and look. The list will never end.
Look, I know my cup is overflowing. I haven’t been thirsty for years. And the people don’t mean to assail me-- they are ordinary everyday jerks like me, just going about their business. They only seem to think the world turns for them, blocking lanes and shouting dumb words into their smart phones. They only seem to believe they are immortal, crowding a character like me. I navigate through all the lapses and hesitations, calculating the least impediments and the least impeding possible, ignoring the blood bath in my head and ten thousand years of bad habits. I lean into the precipice where all the years of lucky breaks and good history ends, the world painted in such desperate hues. A shopping cart and a pocketful of greenback dollars aren’t enough to secure this purchase.
There are walls of wealth and providence. There are towers of sustenance, mountains made of loosed desire. There are hours burning in the open, sight leaving every eye alone. The list asks on and on, never ended, never emptied. The parking lot clangs with car doors and shopping carts, the tarmac scolded by a loud and caustic crow. The heat crowds the air away, every breath fast food thick and exhaust flavored. The lost cause and the emptied cart, I have nothing that I wanted and less I will ever need. I check each item, I look and look. The list will never end.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
dragonfly
I know you only as the dazzle in the air, as the shimmer of your fuselage. Such a tremble in the air, wings all buzz and work. Such a bolt in passing, the hunt forever everywhere. The rules are older than we can know, all the evidence in the architecture, the traditional perfect armor of endless trial and error. It is a shine without time, painted all in hotrod sparkle and helicopter cool. It runs along yet another vast border, between me and all I will never know. This life so much more than we ever use, it stuns to think of how much more is more. Use and beauty reasons too many to count.
I walk less than wade, the tense and circumstance seem to fold and mingle, the time a clumsy 3/4. I confuse and misremember, noting mostly my gravest errors, my most brazen mistakes. I ramble and stammer and never seem to need the point I missed. Love is on the long ago, love is a reflex hard to unlearn. Still you burn and burn, flesh and scent and lush intent. Still you whisper from the wilds and the hovels, lingering half aware in my desolation. A flavor still hinting at my lips. Designed to hold the heart and trap the mind while the eye delights. The champion despite all these contenders. The lost limb of the story of my life.
I want to watch the stars at night, to see the pretty girls pass with each season, to mark the sun in its demise and ascent. Heaven a direction, a lode pole of human longing, a ratio of want and grasp. I want to sing along to the song in my head, this retinue of ghost and ache the bent of a lost cause and lapsed belief. The tangled depths of language speaking to me with the common natal tongue. I want you without sense or reason, without law or limit. That sense of perfection, that distance, that primal desire. I recognized a wonder, and was at once rewritten. I saw you and could not look away.
I walk less than wade, the tense and circumstance seem to fold and mingle, the time a clumsy 3/4. I confuse and misremember, noting mostly my gravest errors, my most brazen mistakes. I ramble and stammer and never seem to need the point I missed. Love is on the long ago, love is a reflex hard to unlearn. Still you burn and burn, flesh and scent and lush intent. Still you whisper from the wilds and the hovels, lingering half aware in my desolation. A flavor still hinting at my lips. Designed to hold the heart and trap the mind while the eye delights. The champion despite all these contenders. The lost limb of the story of my life.
I want to watch the stars at night, to see the pretty girls pass with each season, to mark the sun in its demise and ascent. Heaven a direction, a lode pole of human longing, a ratio of want and grasp. I want to sing along to the song in my head, this retinue of ghost and ache the bent of a lost cause and lapsed belief. The tangled depths of language speaking to me with the common natal tongue. I want you without sense or reason, without law or limit. That sense of perfection, that distance, that primal desire. I recognized a wonder, and was at once rewritten. I saw you and could not look away.
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