Thursday, October 29, 2009

gathered up against her wings; our passages beneath us

counter clockwise ti-tah-tuck-tackering and then the stillness

you can come here too

and be as we used to be
because before is now

mr and ms
on a sunday afternoon

well i just don't know

before i found mr. winton
holding what i thought i was asked to hold

there are moments when we talk with damp tongues
as if we were the protagonists in some famous film with butlers

i asked an old woman where iselin was. she replied i was on it; but she explained, there is another

it begins as a drive i have done before
to a house i now know
with a door that has a mail slot i like to call through

as we do
we did
sipping into our adventure
a doodle within a cup
do you know where we are?
do you know where that is?

the droplets all around
on and on and on our umbrella
tiny ballerinas in the rain
high school as in homecoming
when i was lost
your hair blew in the wind

behind the glass surface
where we had escaped those nights

then sprinting
this is where we have been!

there in the wind
between those rocks
the bells across the sound

that's what i mean
we couldn't get home

tied to the bench where we sat
a white line into the split tree

we were late
that day
he knew

did you catch me a fish?
what is that.
what is that!

blue moon in the whites of your eyes

because it seems to me that our adventures were our most real moments

throwing the satellite nonlines to hearsee what the other is doing

is what i see what he sees?
the slow speeding arche
silent light before sound

there are phone calls
text messages
answers that involve driving
bringing things to places
a sense of being here
as they both are
when one meets the other on the way to
refusing to be too serious

color stillness grounds the colored twisting

beyond the bridge that allows us; passing into an evening

where they live
jill and dylan

as if flies before the bacon

elbows there and here above tip toed feet


this is my brother

i know not sometimes; instead some

it is the structure i feel

what you find is not always what you get

in moments of one

line line line line line enil enil enil enil enil

the eyes of a farmer and his horses

our harvest of this autumn

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

faint flicker of a horizontal language i do not speak

appearing in the colors i imagine
as if they had been there all along

glancing from our new perspective

to defy the tidal pulse

push pull desire

cu rr en ts ma ke co lo rs too

a humbled sense i had never known

beneath my morning breath

i became immersed in my own duality

headlights in an evening mist

i woke to watch the river move beneath the shifting sky

we are in a fishing village; people of the sea

to reflect on the flag i know to be bands of blue and white

we will go to the church on Easter Sunday

Sunday, October 18, 2009

at night before i do not dream i sit for a while

i don't know where i have been going

but the two seem to be the same to me

i am here too

beneath the screens projecting

meet me on the corner of howard and broadway

we meet where the lines are double yellow
lifting with a glance
feet spinning before the exhale
repeating what the other has siad
to smile; look around and be
holding laughter in our hands
tossing pieces of the present into the air we breath

of what i have i begin beyond this moment

through the twists
and pulls
cheeks wound
the turn key sun set
our dirty wind shield pane
we need to get out
are those zebras?
i may need you to grab my hand

machine grind
dobbled yell
yeee eeeeaa a aa ahhh hhhhh hhhhhhhhh
cheering from within