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.
anyway 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
this into
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) .
Some people will sit With their eyes nearly closed Each lid half slit Without a thought to be known
Then there are those that can be seen Straddling fencepoles, drizzling on a Sunday stirrup With eyes standing awkward at the end of the avenue These are the ones that will be awake in the morning These are the ones which will wear all of our warnings.
Though I do admit, I wonder on occasion Why you would be someone instead of another. As if you were only a single dimension Of everything that could ever happen.
After all There are only thin shields of differences That calculate themselves in the burden of a characteristic The traits that craft a sentence with it's
subject
object,
it's period.
Despite all the desires that we share (The ones that make us want to disappear) this is why I have to sit over here, a little further from where you are
I need to know that my eyes see beyond themselves I need to be aware, of your shape, it's slope, each angle that turns If it weren't for the light that lingers long enough For me to capture you and carry your concerns I would never remember why I need to think. Why I would ever have to understand or comprehend The reasons why you were born.
And no, I won't try to make you see yourself anymore.
if i were not the world perhaps it would be
blank
a smooth sheet of paper untarnished a field with sledded snow
one could trace out several forms in the brisk empty field
to shadow the sense of a self that holds no ground in a world so white
then perhaps i could stand in a state that would be a face that strangers pass
there would be no roots in a past
no path
and all that comes through me then would be reborn blank without any feathers attached
the pink end of the pencil would balance the way we write our regrets with the permenance
of such a pure emptiness.
And you may welcome winter As you wrap yourself in the wind And walk with fingers clenched. As you sit beside the window, wrapped In blankets in the backseat.
And I would want to tell you that I do believe your skin would render itself Supple, humid and full of folklore if it were To be against mine in the late afternoon
to be honest you are crowding my consciousness with implants and incidents errors of a circumstance that led me off a shortened ledge
but instead we'll all linger in well lit wooden rooms with glasses of brandy and scarves that sing acoustic But anyway All these people Are only made of complaints And all they are are only the expired intentions of an excuse for comfort, a facsimile of affection.
we are the skinned shelves of an elm the veined branch that circles its age and though we share each others pockets this is not a dime store romance it is withered thumb rubbed parchment the dampened bristle of a leaf piled penchant for cotton, for lilac, the touch of reddened plaid and a warmth that we've never had
and we are awash in non-existence there are two pools of glass inside the cabinent
and we huddle around a common mishap and we are awash in non-existence
or perhaps the depth of a morning imagined the question curves itself answered
but that's not the end of it
there were slots that led themselves around the neighborhood when all the mattresses were pulled out to the curbs we drove ourselves through the city sleeping
only inches away from where our nose ends the head
since we consider so often so much that has so little
substance
or
touch.
we are awash
and we wade
with white t-shirts, flickering monitors dying batteries and stains on the carpet.
i had wanted time to be tangible.
i wanted to weigh it with our diversions
to see if we could add i up to the same solid number
that we toss between
push and pull
the bulk of ourselves is another
(you sit with our hands splayed upon several smooth moving disks orienting each one into a reasonable location on a board that has small tubes connected to it from underneath where it links into a reason- Light under the glass screen- (you can't organize ideas) we could make them out of letters) I'm certain that they will rot after time)
and you are awash
there is something peculiar
about the directness of the day
the feeling that for once i am inside of a summer or within a sundrenched winter
that despite the fact that i feel detached the toe hinges against the latch
and i catch myself crossing the muddened campus sidewalk
slipping in sync with the oncoming expectation
(but we have to extract the words from their definitions)
and i don't want to forget that i thought the trees were illuminated
(i saw your details in the light of the basement)
yet there is a weighted slouch dragging down the burlap shoes onto the pennystone pavement
i am infatuated with a hesitation
inflated by the gullible encounter of a delayed attempt at comprehension
i want the words to be drenched
with the
stolen temperature of the day smeared onto the page the waxy dew of the soggy leaves i measure the lives i miss by the length of their eyes.
She knows enough of me by now, doesn't she? To predict such a flinch, as we walk down the steps, we'll step back, start to kiss, but then she left, I digress. I mean our memories, they were always ill anyway, stretched out upon the table, a few breaths left before death. Sitting back to relax, a glass in palms grasp. A statement started, abruptly halted, "oh do not ask, what is it". They all wear suspenders underneath their vests. These days, a rubix smoothed, the colors muffled by our comments.
The ladies dawdle in the hall, Speaking of andy warhol.
The bartender beneath the staircase says that it's last call. And I've already known tonight, all the nights I'll live, I've lived them all. The glass clinks and spools of slipping time spread themselves in shadows on the wall. And how should I resume? To walk once more, streets unknown? She turned, transfixed, a single point, each foot half arched and me, maladroit.
I thought of Christmas, with her maybe morning, I'd be smothered by blankets, we would stand in the snow melting. I could see both our shadows. (when our skin was still white) The mailbox- empty, as always, no letters, she's standing, beside me, I'm glancing, she's squandered. We wander, with wishes, we might grow closer towards them. But such burials, retreats, are always half-lived. She curls her turtleneck above the nape, over her lips.
The ladies dawdle in the hall, Speaking of andy warhol.
The bartender beneath the staircase says that it's last call. And I've already lived tonight, I've lived them all.
And how should I resume? To smudge my skin, thread my hair, flatten each wrinkle? Why would I bother? Peel away, tissues of scar, mend the tears, alter an image. Why do I, deserve another?
I could have been a smattered scroll of celluloid. smashed under her background noise.
Instead shall I think, that she stays in the pieces, I keep several letters, they're tattered, she sent them. I can smooth them with my fingers, stretch my legs across hardwood. Hips rolled in attics, cardigans in suitcases, I keep many remnants, none of them are worthless. A single sheet of paper, scrawled with ink, her hands one evening, writing silent, "Everything exists- you just can't see all of it." The clothesline of our time is one worn by terse remarks Of closed eye moments, mere blades of grass crumpled.
And there is always the morning, the morning when we stretched our arms, Maybe we noticed, oh what is it that they say, that they say of age, of growth, decay? The morning, when we stretched, until the evening there were creases, I forget, The bed was bloody, (I keep strands of her hair inside lockets) we tried to hold onto a second. But our cells were growing thin. As we stand alone, side by side in empty wooden rooms Playing violins carved from each others skin. No, but I meant to say, I meant to explain There was only enough time, only enough time to try At least we had our instants, (I needed them to understand distance) But she knows me enough already by now, doesn't she? And in short, I was lying.
And could it have been what we wanted, anyway? Your hands were not made to make apple pies, you know. A picket fence, greener grass, someone made from you and I Would it have been right, to live a life that was a lie? None of these rooms have ever worn a wedding ring anyway. All the red blankets, all the yellow lights, all the empty evenings Would never suffice. Canceled checks, coffee stains, after all the after alls. Would it have been worth it? I doubt it. After all, keyless locks are not a new concept.
And if, when her eyes, with no lids leaving leverage Could turn from me towards a knowledge, the knowing of a curvature The subtle movement of her index finger, mimicking a message. Her awareness of her body beside mine, the heavy weight of the tired bracelet, Tracing a direction, a voice asking "pardon, where is the exit?" I will be besides, anyway there are always other lives. We often leave, shrugging love aside Beneath the roads others walk. A splash of light escapes the pavement As you stutter to think of what you could say-
Though there is no one now, nor anymore, in this empty room Except the room itself, perhaps I wonder, I am speaking into a spoon. The voice curves into itself, a hollowed parabola of letters, each word siphoned slowly, through the choking voicebox filter, puckered and flicked and gutted like a thin sheet of clear plastic bending between the thumb and the index, bouncing out and falling towards the silence of a ground so tarnished.
Though I know, I do That what I've heard, it was not true. Spoons do not speak to me. Mere distortion, an amputee. We have lingered in the chambers Of this human sea, reality And we wait here, watching, waning The tides breaking against eternity raining. After all, they break, regardless Of you, or of me. They break, they break, and they were broken By the way we came to be.
It's hardly a very visual crime It hides itself under your t-shirts in the corner It might be encountered, much like depressions The undercoating, slip and pull self That you unplug behind the counter Find it buzzing In the morning
A small red reminder A welt, a wick What have you, when You wear where you've been Underneath the cloth of a concern That other layer, the one that records
Each unadultered mark, The smooth white paper dent Of every idea you've ever crushed They all kneel before your crooked skull Each tarot, lines of endless Keepsake moments that you shelter inside lights The honest immaculate, tethered to the air you drag
And I will keep each one hidden, each one new. Every tattered remnant that reminds me of you.
And I thought that the kitchen was empty, that the phone was off the hook, that no one
Would cook dinner
Anymore
And I thought you were gone
I had a dream that you died
And my life had never been so empty There was no one to talk to And you work so hard you work yourself to death and back And I'd rather have you than a new cabinet or a lamp Forget about the living room Just keep living
And then I dreamed that you killed an alligator And a man was stealing eyes The alligator was flimsy You wanted dinner He stuck his two fingers in the sockets My eyes are bleary and my skin runs deep.
I clearly feel Pseudo-somber And unsure Coffee buzz / cigarette Almost filling in the blanks
As you drag your childhood beside you That tattered bundle of smiles As others appear Standing in corners, seeming as if they were never born.
As it is,
The world seems to be
Compiled of slow hands Moving motions in a morning In distinct light, one with A closed grasp, the edges sewn A silhouette The planes each grown with light as each side unfolds
A gait eternal A swagger compressed A room you always walk out of A liquid hip upon an assemblage of equipment Each instrument, a fine gleam
A circumference that caves at it's center It is not a vat It is an angle. It is not an answer But rather, the meaning of its core..
We've run out of all the right words To salvage this sordid lot To convey the couple Breaking up on the night train This public display of Devastation From the moment we enter crimes To the exit signs in our eyes When the trees are a transition With their sprawling shorn skin Some say "a subtle reminder" Maybe they've just grown tired
I feel like a splattered scroll of celluloid
A grainy screen of smudges grey
The wafting in between, the smoke in the rafters The blistering figure that dances so slowly
A montage, a decoy, an ode to dismay A pattern of fuzz, an intermission A wry slide of a matinee
Think about every other evergone family Their attics, their closets, the times they cleaned their rugs The papers in plastic, family albums, heirlooms, attics A silence, a sequence, a slowly torn down heritage A spool, uncoiled. The clothes that they keep wrapped up in sheets So many lives that are gone mean nothing to me Squander
Description of Dream 249
We live in segments
Solitary individual units The center of a centipede
Each fully groomed, accomedated with the finest necessitites Water grown tea and small sprial formed larvae
(there is a singe, the one that splices, the one that connects)
and each hostile, environment, eco-friendly by sedentary actions, small, minute movemnts of the palmstroking sections,
the intermingling there is a special section
the one (you) always dwell through
splicing of the edges of carrots knitting your tupperware and selling children for another generation
we all like to catch a break now and then with your fully customized lawn, rotar tractor
secure environments
we contain skys, oh, we capture them of course on full display a small, tiny section of time reduced capture this, for a smoke, for a walk in the park well, what else would you do anyway? We rotate, move from here to there, mingle, hold hands, smash secrets The everloving testament to the night, so bloody I don't care about your time anymore
We're already old anyway Where else would you expect us to go We study animals We reduce vitamins
I have many pereogatives
And none of them have anything Anything to do Anything to say About You or who you could or would have might have been
