Found in a tattered box in the depths of a brick bungalow built in the year of your grandmother's birth is a letter. A snapshot, exuding a vapor of whimsy. The walls are dirt, adventurous roots saluting passersby, and the box is soft with the damp. Herein contained are the remains of a past life, perhaps yours or a loved one's, one rich in wonder. The scrawling ribbon of language reads like a song, calmly biding it's time and billowing in euphoria. And perhaps it is a dream, this parchment testimony, but it is covered in bangles and scarlet. A gong that leaves your ears warbling.
She speaks of the rolling fear, the thundering darkness she had known. It stained and scarred her, deprived her of air, light, and touch. Beat her into submission. Like a fundamental error in her soul, she knew not how to escape it's bonds. It was not spoken of, this being, a product of scrutiny and therefore inescapable. She turned her face away.
For a storyteller, she knows no sense of linear time, tossing laughter and tears into the same void and creating her own stormy wealth. Learning to live without, she tread with sturdy soles on the face of a triumphant peak and was not exhausted. She bore children, singing the blues and wearing her palms rough for love. She was bound by a circle, never broken, but wrapped in sinewy scars.
As for the binding fright, she squared her shoulders and let her sprinting heart conduct her. The mortar crumbled. Her eyes beheld not rubble, but a field of wild grasses and the kiss of the grasshopper. The kiss of a violet sun. She revels in anonymity and ephemerality. Her face may show no age, but her days are innumerable.
I wish to be she, and I am when I choose to be.
I am a lion today and a baby tomorrow.
16 January 2010
An Accolade
We must love him, our earnest
lover of the brambleberry rain
A minister to the wanderers,
A delivery man and an angel.
Dehydrated, he grows anyway,
surging along this technicolor path.
He is lucky and loves luckily,
babbling in acute intoxication.
He calls us artists, collectively,
constructing esteem where there was none,
we who always understand, attempt to
interpret, decipher our sisters,
to inject the fiend in our ribs
with the venom of reality.
Lucid.
I believe in my dreams.
Others sleep in dens of dollars and coves of
possession that cannot be carried beyond
the closing of this door and the next,
made more of smoke then solid wood.
We build invisible love with intangible
tools and it fills us to capacity.
I am gathered into this deep levity and
in its contagion, it bolsters my own.
lover of the brambleberry rain
A minister to the wanderers,
A delivery man and an angel.
Dehydrated, he grows anyway,
surging along this technicolor path.
He is lucky and loves luckily,
babbling in acute intoxication.
He calls us artists, collectively,
constructing esteem where there was none,
we who always understand, attempt to
interpret, decipher our sisters,
to inject the fiend in our ribs
with the venom of reality.
Lucid.
I believe in my dreams.
Others sleep in dens of dollars and coves of
possession that cannot be carried beyond
the closing of this door and the next,
made more of smoke then solid wood.
We build invisible love with intangible
tools and it fills us to capacity.
I am gathered into this deep levity and
in its contagion, it bolsters my own.
My Bygone City and My Past Self
In the night, the gray clouds repose
low above our heads and the
confetti snow fills in the air
blowing every which way as if the
watchman dropped a snowbomb on
our silent whistling word and
in the midst of the which way
I inch in futile rubber boots and
make my way to the brass door knob and
I ring the bell of your new
four hundred dollar apartment
and even as I QUIETLY (quietly!)
close it hence a serpent of
snow and wind slithers out of the
whiteness and is scattered by
the manufactured glow of the radiator
and my uncomfortable appendages
thaw and my tense brow unfurrows and
the champagne pops! then settles and
my inner spring uncoils...
I loved you so painfully I could not write the word.
Winter 2010
low above our heads and the
confetti snow fills in the air
blowing every which way as if the
watchman dropped a snowbomb on
our silent whistling word and
in the midst of the which way
I inch in futile rubber boots and
make my way to the brass door knob and
I ring the bell of your new
four hundred dollar apartment
and even as I QUIETLY (quietly!)
close it hence a serpent of
snow and wind slithers out of the
whiteness and is scattered by
the manufactured glow of the radiator
and my uncomfortable appendages
thaw and my tense brow unfurrows and
the champagne pops! then settles and
my inner spring uncoils...
I loved you so painfully I could not write the word.
Winter 2010
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