flood

The rain is back. I’m trying to run away from all the baggage of feeling intentional or compelled to do something, and instead just focus on drifting and streaking across the page like rain is wont to do. All the things that go on, everything that moves across the panes of the world lately. The past is always gone going and eternalized in these calcium bones, dancing in lamplight while I refuse to buy my curtains. The trees that squeak and moan beyond the dark fields and the gopher holes, the raccoons flitting in and out the makeshift barricades I’ve assembled in our serial-killer looking shed. Raton laveurs. The neverending battle against the one idealistic mouse who decided to come in from the cold, curl up long in the warm heated room beneath natalies desk, dreaming of ice teas and skittles, the easy life. Annabelle the cat pulled him back to reality with five stretched claws, ripped him out by the holes of his forearms, natalie horrified, the house whirling and whooshing with horror, all our cats pounding in their skins with instinct and bloodlust. This is a world outside of roads and outside of electric lights, we are just a part of the treeline, the evercreeping sleek skein of weed and poison oak. I am measuring my life in the empty mugs and glasses that line my desk.

Everything is that same familiar silt of coffee and sugar muck, wine and ibuprofen, flowered weeds in makeshift vases and scented candles and thousands of worn down nubs on the sharpies that delineate my soft grasp of art. All of the well intentioned dictionaries are lying around my desk, hoping that I’ll get back to them, learn learn learn learn and grow. I’m always thinking that so close to me are the lines towards my future, literally the keys to next countries

i will flit, there has to be the spanish above and beyond all, just the justice of the world alone demands it, italian for my sentimental heart, arabic for the calligraphic understanding of fireside storytelling and some phantom of white savior complex knitting itself into a narrative of altruism. There is to be no advancement without communication and only the suits are learning the other languages, those spooks. They sit there paranoid searching for insults and plots and jealousy all the time vigilant. What a lie! French, I remember the progression. There was never a motivation like hoping to yell at those perpetuating injustice, the ambivalent drunks who tried to piss on our homeless asses furtive in sleeping bags beneath the bridged steps of the cite universitaire, the xenophobic landlords unwilling to sit through our grammatical uncertainties, the dumbfuck americans who we wished to be delineated from, we’d never again speak english in public.

The pause, the colossal pause, the rupture. We live an interactive life from moment to moment, count courting our impatient heartbeats in milliseconds and melatonin, overstimulated, oversaturated, waterlogged, surveilled. We are drunk drones dreaming of a freedom we imagine ourselves to have, we gawk. We are rubber lipped and lascivious, longing for a thing we don’t understand, a crystalline thing we attempt to anesthetize and market and purchase and pin down, label, stamp, dust, hedge, weed, wed. Yes! Ah, the luck of this civilization with ladies. With the gypsy dance, with the entire peripheral idea of transgressions at the edges of culture and of the civilization, we’ve mucked the waters to the point of having only melancholic, morose men with booze and depressants, sitting in florescent blue and pink light watching the young tadpoles in their thongs betray all their childhood dreams of horses and chant and slow sensual sway, now its just this operation, a push for a twenty, hair gel, madonna, lysol, floor wax, denim and fur, pearls and feathers, stereotype and sterility. Play acting plasticity.

Breakcrumbs lead back to the river

Everything leads to the river

The river beckons

Rush

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a blur bends

“…what are you thinking?”

And we begin like a moon pulling from a cloud, the village is flooded in a light, a throb on the air.

like all the tuned strings hum awake and open, the inward suck at the charge- already there are a million of them, are awash over spaces between us like a magic lantern, twisting through the strands of your hair.

dancing amidst and sliding upon your red red lips, hissing through the first few steps of the dance. scrambling up the cliffs, swooping

I cup the backs of your shoulder blades and pull the surge of you into the core of me, pressing ribs against the throbs of heart, your lungs along the rafters of me.

we hang each like birds in heavy winter air, like wet coiled vines from mossrock faces, frozen race like water spilling into void, music into ink. hung harps in trees

i can’t help feeling filled like a tired planter box suddenly leaping into life at the lark call, like its morning after 100 years.

the sternum and the arc crux, collar bone finery graces the lace slip and slope of you, trees racing by in the snow, the spiraling wind in stripes and sonnets… we’re so dressed up, lady, our evening best.

whispers and calls the morse codes expedited of your white teeth smiling through a locals legends and pantheons devoted to this our one night. they huddle over fire

your blood and sails press on me a brick of runes, im staring at them move, the pinpricks of light and the transcendent message, sprigs and sparrows blowing at the borders, trenching wells of stars, drowning hell in green.

Can’t translate but i already know. The blowing wind billowing by.

I am all about you, staring mad eyed, blissful and hungry, breathing into your eyes, singing into your mouth, careful enunciating syllables into your navel.

My fingertips slide down your back, the pillow a cat curling quiet around your ears, temples, your hips rising slowly at the oak groan and growing heat.

Atlas never had it so well. I am a ladder. I am literally a ladder. Sky and sky

Your feet plant at my sides and you bloom in shoots of sunflower, your face turning side to side, tracking the light and my laughing face, rolling in the flow and flux.

Foxes springing through thrush and the lush yellow fields, beneath this cobalt eternity we glow enormous, cackling at the moon and the snails, racing past birds and lakes, the world tiny as rumpled remains of an eraser on an empty page.

Hips in strain.

Still riding eachother across the sky into heat and a haste which quickens and slows, mows past the constellations and the chord clusters, past the quiet boarders sleeping nearby in sweaters and their mystery lives.

we’ve escaped from the pale eyed soup of headlights hail into this cave, the walls sprayed in sound and the echoes found and the amps on beneath us and between us, every sound an explosion, every pause a millenium.

As your back arcs up my spine turns inward, my eyes turn to who knows what, suddenly i know all things. how to live forever, how to make gold, how to avoid cold, why i never sleep with a pillow, where all things go.

your hands are holding at my spook hermit ribs, a Franciscan come to know love, free of the satchel and the suffering, free of the robe,birds and more birds, the singing and the singing, sighs and sight and nothing but light.

abrupt as an edge you grasp and you flip, and i’m fit to the boat that had held you, as you tower above in the stars and clouds.

fire at your back and the first glimmers of dawn tracing at your breasts between streams and the sleeping flocks, the slid salt kiss and the lilt of each hit and miss as the castles attempt to fuse themselves through cannon fire.

slowly ajoining walls and legs, foundations felt in a quiet gel, acutely aware of the heavy helmet, rainment, we’re glistening by streetlights and plate glass, silhouettes slating across the horizons of you, faraway highways and flitters of an apocalyptic morning farewell, no, we’re impregnable til the morning comes.

you are halfway to song and suddenly we are a train, everything leaps to life as the turbines budge and we lock in step, clanking over one and the next rail, lurching forward at the oars and sprint, gaining spead and a cloud, each town playing across our brows through the thick haze, mazes of terracing and maps we will ignore.

charcoals burn hot in the far corner folds of us, all weight playing from one side of the mail car to the other, the passengers grabbing chairs, screaming, staring wide eyed from their seats over the serene countryside, what could it be?

you’re pressing your hands into me, your head back to the furthest, feeling the shape of you, the violin sound of your stretched neck, eyes closed and focused on the tone, several and simultaneous, the quarter notes stretched over eternities.

Your hips thrust and slide, lamplight spilling over the roads, lids and the lips of you, fog on the windows, rhythms of all the familiar songs sirens aflicker over our faces as we press button after button, sorting through the billion faces, tracking, parched, racing across the night sky.

we are back in bed, alacrity far tearing by we are- our hands and heads and S shapes and mouth gapes, we’re chairs and vases falling from every table, all darting shocks and shaking buoy on a simmersea stirred in rock and blackbirds, we’re shaking letters into slack-jawed alphabets, the sand into the morning, the stories back into the bookworlds, the molecules into the sunbeams that push us apart into dream and day.

We’re spreading ravines through the vineyards, bolting through a wake of agendas and doilies, straining against thighs and soundbarriers, faster than light and sound, slipping into the lightning cloud, blue and white streaked in and through our eyes, hair on end, teeth in illumination

a blur never ends, it bends

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BLUR

We touch, we see, we smell, we fell
asleep like two cats, awoke all arms and fire
draped on branches, the bleachsting sun
cutting the soil to squares and jewel
ridging our foreward heads, beading the caverns
changing the flags at launching ships

the sun
glowing from your eyes
howling out through each breath
slipping sleek green through the snarls and snores
of a nameless kneeling house kept
catcrouched before its newspaper
reviewing the changes, watching dramas
folded, ironed, each to each
big moon peeking 3 windowbox in turns
stars jostle beneath curtainwings
longing, hoping, loving, loved
leaning jasmine bends
hold us like two doves

cooing over branches, silhouette
the bleached counters echo sighs,
the spectating grout crowds line up long &
a gleaming moon winks against the windshields
smoothing your cheek against mine

lampposts pulled in perspective,
drunk clouds dive above, climbing
your name on my lips
your lips on my eyes
your heart in my hands
your hair on my shoulders

the windowblinds bullfight the bright night sky

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sympathetic magic

Henry Miller once said that anybody whom is perpetually interested in the outside world must have quite a lot of fear about looking in at their own life. Actually, Henry Miller said a lot of things. Henry Miller, lets be honest, was speaking incessantly.

Some psychologists describe the scenario of somebody who cannot stand a pause, cannot stand the sight of a blank wall or a quiet night, in the most perverse and mean-spirited terms.

like nick nack paddy wack give the dog a bone. this they say.
sometimes

well.

good an introduction as any!

sympathetic magic

I’ve been reading the golden bough and watching a film on hunter s thompson, Gonzo. I went outside to pick up some groceries and slowly realized I’d relapsed into the cocooning insomniac hurricane that is a few days with nothing to do: I’d not left. I’d paced nervously from one room to the next, knowing I had no deadlines or rather obscuring those remaining into a far distant future. Movie after movie have cut the last few days into a welsh countryside scene I’ve been flying over a la The Snowman film from 1982 I was raised on. All the time these films pervade over the drab everyday life, what the hell am i supposed to do with all this french fetish, and italy? and germany? dreams and half cut tickets and missing journals and throbs of dream and clover, irish cliffs, tea and teeth, never sleeping, always freezing. cigarettes and ash as the only decor over wood floors and tidelines of book mounds collapsing against wall and guests. So I’m having a lot of angst grief rationalizing a lot of the unused or unrecognized features of my creative psyche, be it linguistically, communally or symbolically. A lot of that came to a head today when an innocuous trip out the door reminded me exactly how long it had been I’d been ostrichheading my face into the dirt of my apartment, pacing from guitar to piano to computer and the nonsense of the internet, a thousand smiles and emotions shared with nobody. who was it who decried the television, Sinatra? something along the lines of, it destroyed the cinema this monster, hundreds of thousands of humans alone, light falling across their floorboards- laughing ALL AT THE SAME TIME and yet still feeling lonely and alone. it is kinda sinister.

but in addition to that obvious social itch there is just the weirdness of opening my email and coming across all these old journal subscriptions I’ve got for a million things that just aren’t interesting me these days: be it politics or the polemics of squatting, language exchange , hospitality facilitation groups, …(groups of any sort, for that matter….) I’m well aware that I tend to look for monogamous sorts of things like an airtube of happiness when I dive down into other wells of things less than happy that I feel a sort of divine directive to seek out, the muck and bad luck circus that is The Other Folk, the third world shadows we entangle into bad soundtracks and commercials interrupting our reality tv. I’ve been really down lately. Since I’ve come back, or perhaps longer. Its not fair to say its been universal, I’ve been thrilled to find my girl, my fox, my annabelle. These things warm me away from so much.

But the everyday is this huge thing. Annabelle is there to greet me once I’ve already survived the outside world and crawl back into the fireside world of this cave, my fox has her times and her own world. For once in my life it begins to dawn on me that I’ve got to be responsible for finding coping mechanisms that don’t rely exclusively on always holding hands with somebody and staring into a smile whenever I’ve been reading about war or disgusted by marketing. All this impatience has been bubbling out of my hermitage onto the strangest audiences, and there is just no reason. I gotta get that together. No point in being the Giver if it isn’t selective.

Sympathetic, imitative magic. Folk think you can change something because you’ve got something that looks or acts like it, or maybe something that once touched or moved it. I went outside today to by groceries and got all teary eyed. The weather had utterly changed. I wanted to walk there but realized almost immediately I couldn’t take it, couldn’t take that much time in the mood and chill simultaneously. Each and every window of the car was frosted over, a snails trail of car lights over the freeway lane bridge transversion. I hated myself for driving, I hated myself for staying in the house til I was this sensitive to the outside. I got to the store and some yuppie asshole was lecturing a homeless man in the frost about proper venues for finding food without hassling passersby, i stopped to hand him a dollar and accidentally gave him a ten. He looked at me and I at him, I smiled, walked into the sticky warm store, the muzak, the fluorescent lights and wax beneath mats. Got back into my car feeling this profound need to smoke.

Coffee hissing. I feel like this has always been my shtick, coffee and cigarettes. I got me a woman around here somewhere. I’ve got all these ghostly instruments cluttering up my vanity, waiting for a band and the free time and cash that come from a real job, proper slavish servility, the sheen of a smile bouncing of each paycheck. sometimes when i wake up and its ten fourtyfive, yeah i still put on more coffee

i love the world in this profoundly weird way. only it could make a me.

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faster than commas


some stuff i’m salvaging from an old archivemay 19 2009 prayer, whiskey after leonard cohen’s democracy in the usa

Two shoes
up and back
back and forth
and asking askance
lead me to water
lead me to present
lead me to shelter, sobrietys visit
lead me to harmony
and lend me forgiveness
lead me to empathy, community, spirit
send me the viceral
and leave me superfluous
lead me to luminousness aching in worthlessness
lead me to energy
to endless desire
lend me satiation and mist of the fire
lead me to convergence
and lead me to rapture
lead me inquisition at drawing the master
lead me to memory
lend continuation
lead me to the prolonguing of all the things feminine
lead me to convergence and convergence together
and to quickening cohabitation at the dusks drear dream
lead me to parallelism and the black eyes that linger
lead me to polygamy and all morpheous things

to chaotic echos
singing bright loud as they cross

in the hope of collision, detection of loss

but lead me from apathy
and lead me from anger
lead me from pettiness
and making amends
lead me from judgment
from dappled dependance
lead me from despondancy
and absence of friends
lead from simulcras shimmering simmer
and lead me from idols to soft moving flesh
lead me from hanging and baying and praying
and lead me to someplace for taking this test

walk with me shortly or walk with me far
drugged in the deepness and darkness of war
flat in the sinews and broad in the crags
of the marrow and matter, the pretentious portents

in the napes and the valleys, the scattering tribe
at the aube of the summit, in the castles of pride

as you roam with me ever and roam with me wide
from the trinkets remembered of chaos inside
to the bantering chorus of a dampened remorse
and the bandaid bonanza of a busyness horse
and the clop and the gallop of a tender caresse
that is speeding a question much more that a quest

making fattened eyes brighter
in the drowning of blue
in the grasp of that spirit that emenates you
in the cloth of the linens you hold to your breast
and call mind or diminion, the opinions of friends

red radios outscreaming the bent tramps gentle hum
foggy outrocket spirals seed dead delirium

a gleam
cache of pauses
fjord stretch of the sallow skin
streamed silk against iron buttresses
glide jelly harness in the billboard sunset
breeze across the unraveling of this here dream

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Moment , on the metro

Heliotrope sky.
Twenty three strains of black
sequester packs of this stuff beneath its lace
of fourty nine odd trees blowing west

Yellow moon bleeds into wisterical colors
Amoung mirages of movement, spontinaiety, thirst

And theres my bored head drooping, but a hungry eye
Devouring through a sheet of corrugated plexiglass
Licks worlds named by some adolescant idolotry
Ambition stretch-marks etched across the cold surfaces

The work of a Key, i presume silently.

A brilliant YELLOW luminescence suddenly floods the window tracings
As a screeching bullet train screams my one true loves name
Mercurial passing with a glowing, arched back and blurred white rumply face
I am now standing on my chair, frantic, rushing the window, nails aflame in tens

When suddenly what is it
But indigo and royal colors alone, wheat and a flaxenlime in their fade
streaking my face through the plastic… a sweating sizzle in its own loss lament

A cautioning scarlet bulb in the background fades to carmine as my mind wanders
drowns into burgundy, eyes into lids, days into years, into, into.

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miller metro

Image

Muse, you’ve crippled us all. We are the Syphillites, the Old Arthritorites, the Cancor People.
We’ve empty batteries, and slumped sacs of potatoes, sketch pads, and silence. Always, insomnia.
We wince towards the winds and windows, the waifs and the welcomes.
For You, You’ve castrated our fingers, disheveled our spirits,
scrawled beards across our young smooth faces.
My eyes You’ve placed upon my arms, the walls, my mouth square upon my chest, nestled in my sternum
You, oh, well pronounced, whom has summoned You?

You were the Train, today, transmogrified, sanctified.
That ugly train, its magnificence coursed between two narrow tracks.
Augean slime, sweet mechanical streams, which swept one sea to the next
Alien language, these mundane, molding Monet moments -mettle to worship, to triumph.
These train travels, these glints glowing shadows on spreckled linoleums …musing in the half light.

You, You were the referential mania of the modern world.
sickly poetry, You were, haystacks, kandinsky, toilets, surface.
Chevrons, your grey blouse, and three black matchsticks with crimson caps.
Alongside three dusky blue razorblades, mirrors foreshadowing the fleuves, the floods,
up, up, down, down
and down.

The floors, they are so modern. The walls, lights, too, are modern. You spring chicken!

I am a madman here, I read the wind howling by, line by line. …I stretch my ears,
my shoulders are all submission,
but the vocabulary, tonight, runes.
And I summon prophets, sibylline waifs, oracles, rosetta stones and
rose nebulas to my aid

The walls, here, the ceilings are carpeted. It is Versailles. The stairs shine, but cringe, terse, nervous stars.
Where might I find my long coat? Will I be bound? Who descends, amidst spring spectacles?

Man traces reflected silhouettes back to the Wells, demure azure shadows.
A mess of brushed steel lace, crouching stiff beneath this gruff velvet chaise, worshipping
shoes, coins, chewing gum, pulp grain paper with proprietaires’ prenoms, satiate, elegant incoherence.
This is Lascaux, this is Manhattan, Babylon and Berlin.
Myrrh, jasmine, cognac and urine.

You are Duchamp, surface, the perennial, the permanent. These are your pews, pues,
your shelter, Haleine, florescent evanescence, wherein the precious bodily fluids drain.
Your powers, mystiques, Your myths, and morals, Your labyrinthine quais
Course us, beneath a spell amidst infinite eyes, on the walls, on the arms. On the walls.
Up, down, up, down
And down, again, again.

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