The ceiling shifts as the hour passes, up in smoke, gone to seed. Rain pelts the rooftops, it hangs gauze on the distance, casts a hush through the trees. The sun took a personal day, the storm just eases on down. The world remembered is the world erased, these sins of soil washed clean. The rainfall draws down the atmosphere, every drop an intimacy. Every single breath might shake the sphere, every single word renews that measure of wrath. Rattle the shingles, drizzle the trees. I pass unnoticed into darkness.
The shadows fill the landscape, the shadows steep the sky. The world sways and billows at its seams. A hush of rain, a kiss of night, the dose of stagger and chill. Things move on, scuffing shoes and burning bridges. Things move on, with you or without. The future mistaken because you misunderstood the past. Your life story at long last all postscript. Blue mood madness and the steady shedding sky. The measure only in inches until it is too late. I miss it by a finger width, it may as well be miles. I miss it as it passes, it may as well have never been.
The puzzle isn't in the pieces, but the pacing. The mystery isn't in the being, but the asking. Gods and makers and the mistakes of the tongue. Clues and cyphers found by eyes meant to find the trail. Invisible hands and ghosts with the most, the imagination is made to run wild. We place our faith in figments because once there was someone behind a curtain. Now every cloud and bush is scoured for great and powerful Oz, or poor worm- feeding Polonius. Every move and shift some secret in the trees. Heaven emptied save for stars and plucked harp strings, I sit beneath a drowned twilight, feeling my years. My prayers unspoken, my sorrows my own.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
enchantment
You waited until the moon was new. You spoke the words aloud. Prayer or oath, credo or promise it is too late to take it back. The lesson of the candle as it flickers. The lesson of the clock as it crawls. The straight line still has a path to follow. The geometry doesn't ever ask. Was this pause all you had wanted? Did you think you could escape your senses just because reason hit the road? You spoke the words, so now you are in it. Every inch of skin enchantment, every single breath a spell.
I waited out to find a star. Lost in the landscape, still in the dark. Houses shining all around, the stretch of fences, the school at night. I thought about you, feet shifting on e cement. I thought of you walking, shoes scuffing the earth. Placed upon this stirring world, the day speeding by, the night always climbing. The very thought of you, spun out of whim and the hour. The unholy notion, catching your gaze. This abrupt promise. This plaintive report.
This how I always see you, your skin lit from the light of the open doorway, your back the tension of commitment to the lines. Your eyes always asking those sane questions, these repetitions sinking through my flesh. The swiftness of tooth and eye, the fire your smile implies. The sweetness of direction, a straight line still lost in intent. Is there rain against the window? Is that a shadow I saw? The magic sudden and without meaning. The moment there, the moment gone. The wishing only makes it fly. The sentence only serves its ending.
I waited out to find a star. Lost in the landscape, still in the dark. Houses shining all around, the stretch of fences, the school at night. I thought about you, feet shifting on e cement. I thought of you walking, shoes scuffing the earth. Placed upon this stirring world, the day speeding by, the night always climbing. The very thought of you, spun out of whim and the hour. The unholy notion, catching your gaze. This abrupt promise. This plaintive report.
This how I always see you, your skin lit from the light of the open doorway, your back the tension of commitment to the lines. Your eyes always asking those sane questions, these repetitions sinking through my flesh. The swiftness of tooth and eye, the fire your smile implies. The sweetness of direction, a straight line still lost in intent. Is there rain against the window? Is that a shadow I saw? The magic sudden and without meaning. The moment there, the moment gone. The wishing only makes it fly. The sentence only serves its ending.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
all flesh
Again I wake to sheer bewitchment, I sup on sacrifice. The days unravel from monotony to amusement, from shock to terror. Come morning I am papered with wrappers, nightfall I am plastered with shadows. Nothing gets much traction, out where things have ended. I begin and then it is over, I finish and then it all starts again. Is it any wonder I keep checking the clock and the sun? Is it any wonder that I lose my place so often? Time entangled with all this life. Pick the number and say the line. Hope gets sorted out on its own.
There is a brace of sunlight upon the shards. There is a stirring in the atmosphere, a presence in the tense. Each branch keeps time, the music silent and unceasing. The sway and weave of the world as it turns. Each tree casts its shadow to mark its place in the sky. I still to listen, and only hear my my heart stagger. I slow to think on it, and only hear my thoughts caught on the wire. Broken chairs and dirty windows, nowhere to sit, nothing to see. The broken bough lies in the dirt and rocks, its sickness crystalized on severed stumps. Stretched out in the soft autumn sun, everything reaching for the sky.
Someone else has cast this shadow. Someone else has walked this path. The sun in its socket, the moon beneath the tide. The century ends in beats and reason. The calendar turns to its tables, the worm turns to its task. The dead clamber at the latches, they press the hasp and the hinges, popping screw and pin. Such stale portions, served without question. Such dull answers, pretending they were never lies. These horror stories we keep in the tide of feeling flesh. This dark comedy every time I open my eyes. Hope another placeholder, waiting for a play.
There is a brace of sunlight upon the shards. There is a stirring in the atmosphere, a presence in the tense. Each branch keeps time, the music silent and unceasing. The sway and weave of the world as it turns. Each tree casts its shadow to mark its place in the sky. I still to listen, and only hear my my heart stagger. I slow to think on it, and only hear my thoughts caught on the wire. Broken chairs and dirty windows, nowhere to sit, nothing to see. The broken bough lies in the dirt and rocks, its sickness crystalized on severed stumps. Stretched out in the soft autumn sun, everything reaching for the sky.
Someone else has cast this shadow. Someone else has walked this path. The sun in its socket, the moon beneath the tide. The century ends in beats and reason. The calendar turns to its tables, the worm turns to its task. The dead clamber at the latches, they press the hasp and the hinges, popping screw and pin. Such stale portions, served without question. Such dull answers, pretending they were never lies. These horror stories we keep in the tide of feeling flesh. This dark comedy every time I open my eyes. Hope another placeholder, waiting for a play.
Monday, November 12, 2012
the bones and the dust
A breeze stirs the still leaves, chilling the air with an icy silence. A touch of the unsettled spilling down from heaven. That grasp of winter once the seasons seem to slip. The sky so bright, the day so clear, some remainder of insolence and salad days. The cold so close it whispers while the sun rollicks in the dust. The cold so close the skin trembles with its misgivings while the bones spike and seep. One more word, I am on my way. One more word, the season will remember.
The pine tree dangles sunlight from its needles, keeps the cold swaddled in its shade. The wind sweeps the roof, the wind rocks the cradle. We already know the bough will break, and baby will come down. We already know the spell we hazard, speaking out of turn. The sky surrenders to the work of crows and gulls, swept clean of any cloud, swept with wing and feather until the wind is the only broom left. I wrote it down before there was much of anything that happened. I wrote it down because the only rule is the sticks and the stones out past where the words will matter.
The magic is cast, tender phrasing and ruthless melodies. The world holds its breath, as if there was something to it. The world holds its breath, waiting for the wheels to come off. The stunned blue in transit, the weight of wings as they push the sky away. The stopwatch speeches and the clockwork reasons cling to the walls and fences. The sun as it sinks, the stars as they rise. Nothing but usual suspects and casual sentiment. Nothing but back alleys and locked doors, missing the moment as it passes. All the words gathered with bare fingers. All the words shed in a single breath. The wind rises as the sun goes down. The season always speaks first to the bones and the dust.
The pine tree dangles sunlight from its needles, keeps the cold swaddled in its shade. The wind sweeps the roof, the wind rocks the cradle. We already know the bough will break, and baby will come down. We already know the spell we hazard, speaking out of turn. The sky surrenders to the work of crows and gulls, swept clean of any cloud, swept with wing and feather until the wind is the only broom left. I wrote it down before there was much of anything that happened. I wrote it down because the only rule is the sticks and the stones out past where the words will matter.
The magic is cast, tender phrasing and ruthless melodies. The world holds its breath, as if there was something to it. The world holds its breath, waiting for the wheels to come off. The stunned blue in transit, the weight of wings as they push the sky away. The stopwatch speeches and the clockwork reasons cling to the walls and fences. The sun as it sinks, the stars as they rise. Nothing but usual suspects and casual sentiment. Nothing but back alleys and locked doors, missing the moment as it passes. All the words gathered with bare fingers. All the words shed in a single breath. The wind rises as the sun goes down. The season always speaks first to the bones and the dust.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
punch the clock
The crescent moon, the morning star, wherever you look it's a symbol. The weather should step in, some clouds at least, a little rain. Instead the night fades and the cock crows, the words all trail as steam. Look at you on your lonely planet. Look at you with your lucky stars. It is out of bed and into the story. Time has its tread, the telling its reasons.
Scuff the dust as you go through the paces. Mind your manners as you makes your rounds. The clock points put this current failing. The lapse the pain of frost to the touch. Habit will carry well past the reach of reason. The routine binds these sticks and sign. You cast your wishes to the wind and wear the veil of ritual. The ease of seeing how things work out the same. The load no lighter, whatever burdens shed.
The thing is, time does fly. Fun has nothing to say about it. Once the days were too long to be counted, when there never were tomorrows, and the angels had room to dance. The days stretched and the years reached, we carve all these notches and marks. Scoreboards and grudge keepers, we measure first to race the moment, then to try to apply the brakes. The count is always going on, always a little off. We speak aloud of little wisdoms, the work always the same. You stand there as if you were waiting for your turn. Read every sign that says something. Punch the clock and take the blame.
Scuff the dust as you go through the paces. Mind your manners as you makes your rounds. The clock points put this current failing. The lapse the pain of frost to the touch. Habit will carry well past the reach of reason. The routine binds these sticks and sign. You cast your wishes to the wind and wear the veil of ritual. The ease of seeing how things work out the same. The load no lighter, whatever burdens shed.
The thing is, time does fly. Fun has nothing to say about it. Once the days were too long to be counted, when there never were tomorrows, and the angels had room to dance. The days stretched and the years reached, we carve all these notches and marks. Scoreboards and grudge keepers, we measure first to race the moment, then to try to apply the brakes. The count is always going on, always a little off. We speak aloud of little wisdoms, the work always the same. You stand there as if you were waiting for your turn. Read every sign that says something. Punch the clock and take the blame.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
points of articulation
After the day turns gray, after every wonder had been pried loose, after tongues twist and lights trick, what is left unsaid? The words all gather, perching in their places along each line. Slow wings stir, the air sifted for a single question. A charge to spark and follow, a grace to gather dust. The clock spins its pitiless circles, grinding minutes and spraying hours. I save my dark glasses for another day. You turn to shine and forgotten sayings, changing your stance amid this sweep of meanings. I reach towards your shadow, clutching empty air.
This isn't the only story, just the one I always tell. I kick up some dust, I stare at the stars. I leave nothing but mosquito bites and ashes. It isn't the path of sacrifice, just the depths of this tireless feeding. A meadow shrinks as the forest swells. When everything goes missing, you count your portion in pockets. You say I tell you nothing, though I have told you all I know. You say I'm a broken record, so I have to turn the tables. Scratch though I can’t find that itch. Sing though it isn't a tune I carry.
The lights go out, and we know nothing. Things recede as our eyes lose purchase, the crunch and bite of objects in the dark. We fall out from our promises, our bright and iron compromise. Smoke trailing into distant skies. Heaven held only by the cold and the dauntless swarms. Lost between this want and these words, nothing I say can move you. So I work the world around you, every axis and articulation, every spin and stretch towards your direction. Points and pieces, I crush and sway the puzzle. Always that extended grasp, the reason so very near.
This isn't the only story, just the one I always tell. I kick up some dust, I stare at the stars. I leave nothing but mosquito bites and ashes. It isn't the path of sacrifice, just the depths of this tireless feeding. A meadow shrinks as the forest swells. When everything goes missing, you count your portion in pockets. You say I tell you nothing, though I have told you all I know. You say I'm a broken record, so I have to turn the tables. Scratch though I can’t find that itch. Sing though it isn't a tune I carry.
The lights go out, and we know nothing. Things recede as our eyes lose purchase, the crunch and bite of objects in the dark. We fall out from our promises, our bright and iron compromise. Smoke trailing into distant skies. Heaven held only by the cold and the dauntless swarms. Lost between this want and these words, nothing I say can move you. So I work the world around you, every axis and articulation, every spin and stretch towards your direction. Points and pieces, I crush and sway the puzzle. Always that extended grasp, the reason so very near.
Friday, November 9, 2012
forecast
When the only law is make a fire, burning down never makes it to the courts. Air and fuel eking out some rule, the cough and sputter yet another of the sacred rituals. The strike and spark always the tool picked to take the day. The supreme calm of flint awaiting spiteful steel. The blinding brilliance of that stroke of lucky flame, dancing along the edge of the irrevocable. You must either burn or go out.
Then it comes in fits and drizzles, the tide of eyes before the teeth of the storm, the breath and prayer of the insolent atmosphere. How bright the sky before the tense deluge. How surprised the glove when the gloves come off. Empty so long of anything to feel except fists. The rictus of the submerged structure all the draw and set of any equation. Empty of move or motive what words will do? The thirst you suffer has its roots in the restless heavens. The rain nothing answered, only another result.
So I tend a few small dim fires. So the winter is always in my fingers first, that frost sharp on the skin and rough on the bones. The sunrise, the sunset, a dense remark, a pile of plates. I stray from the tongue I have attended, each thought a reflex pretending at reflection. The angels all weighed with surface tension, the wings and inferences at a loss on this scale. All the wishes in steady sentences read as served. I stretch along this laden plain, only ever ready to spark. The night its chill, the fire its burn.
Then it comes in fits and drizzles, the tide of eyes before the teeth of the storm, the breath and prayer of the insolent atmosphere. How bright the sky before the tense deluge. How surprised the glove when the gloves come off. Empty so long of anything to feel except fists. The rictus of the submerged structure all the draw and set of any equation. Empty of move or motive what words will do? The thirst you suffer has its roots in the restless heavens. The rain nothing answered, only another result.
So I tend a few small dim fires. So the winter is always in my fingers first, that frost sharp on the skin and rough on the bones. The sunrise, the sunset, a dense remark, a pile of plates. I stray from the tongue I have attended, each thought a reflex pretending at reflection. The angels all weighed with surface tension, the wings and inferences at a loss on this scale. All the wishes in steady sentences read as served. I stretch along this laden plain, only ever ready to spark. The night its chill, the fire its burn.
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