Tuesday, January 15, 2008

if there is nothing greater
than waiting to remember, several feet stepping
through the wherewithal of the evening
if you can never really step outside
of whatever time you occupy, (you can't create the texture of time you know)
perhaps the embroidered tissue of that sweltering groove
could embody a reminder, etc, an answer.

I want to be the needle

fourty two years ago-
Graining against the starched midnight vinyl
Of her mothers phonograph player,
(she is sitting on the floor with her knees bent, feet in the air)
But I couldn't, not with this electric flesh.

I'd have to wander to where the birds gather in groups
Scattered on shingles in their innate silence
In order to understand historys language.
If I were to ever appreciate all these broken telegrams, all these empty postcards
All these yellow papers and Sunday afternoon stares
(I have never written cursive the way he wrote his name on the inside seam of the suitcase.)

(I cannot reflect upon that which I am within,
there is no mirror, absent to itself,
which returns the life while
it's witnessed)

the day imitates the dream
and we are shrewd evaluators
of the cost of the calender, the state of the legislature

we've been fooling around
with the parameters.

I wanted to be plastered
against idealized platforms
of red and white,
families and mirrors.

You've made this into
a game of intentions.
I'll hold your wallet
if you take my medicine.

what is worth being written?
when we are driven away from the origin,
the fraction of affection that signals our connection.

If only we were aware, of the inside, the incidental
every abrupt bit of implicit information
the things only our cells will ever know.

I wanted to watch myself being witnessed, encase my mind
in the carcass.

The only way you wanted it was worthless.
the only thing you thought you knew was knowledge.

I lose a little piece of myself when I'm with you,

the snare of my ear, the words where I writhe

I never know where to put them anymore,

the soft curdled shape,
the firm bite of your chest.

You would never let them wipe away your rear view,
they can't cut the stars out of your space
I just throw them, I toss all my lungs, all my nerves

You never had a knowledge you could walk towards.
We were just a buried cliff, several tense cremations and a bottle of laments.
I always wanted to know where you made


A pile of disheveled evenings coming home newborn.

all we are talking about here
is the human mind

after all

such a self manufactured mechanism….

it shouldn't be this difficult, there's only one apartment.

"This is a hedonistic affair" mumbled the old men as they [passed the apples]

Collapse with these creations, (I really meant to let you know that I've always wanted to smile)
But you keep wrapping, turning, these newspapers-(thermometers) I don't know what to make of this anymore.

We wind like the curbs.

I'd swear, I swear, seriously, honestly, this door opens to another room and we can go there.

Your frustrating me.

Why would you say that? I never even wanted to wear your colors anyway.

Take it back.
I've had enough of you and your tourist traps.

If I can't come over here and relax I might as well stay home.

i only miss you because i miss myself, i know (it's sad) .

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