spiders
The gray winds abound, casting its wild magic upon the dust and trees. I smoke in slow circles, pacing the fissures of old worry, tromping my way through the dirt. I pause to watch the wires dance, swaying in the limbs above, trailing wild strops of smoke against the back of the sky. A flit from the corner of my seeing eye, I turn to make a spider still, dressed in its shine of startled armor. Limo black and a distressed red, the jumping spider waits to scry my appetites. Am I enemy or am I irrelevant? It moves on, reading me cold.
I couldn't count all the mistakes I made, considering I am usually making new ones with every move and breath. An alarm sounds somewhere in the baffling distance. I listen through the web of songs and dogs, hearing little but the wind. The cigar butt cools in the ashtray. Little measure never even marking the map. The ritual's always the last things we leave. A scrub jay complains from the bones of a chopped-down peach tree. I couldn't even pretend I could claim to disagree.
I pass a web clinging in a corner, a handful of dead peach blossoms scattered like shed spider shells, pausing strange before the sight. They swing and sway upon the lines, held as if in suspense of breath. There is a geometry of intersections, of paths and notions crossed, a sizzling of neurons whispering where sense and surface blend. The idea of distinction so different from its skin. I stray along the paving where the gravel greets the clay, a parapet of outers and inners to pace and grope and claim. The roads are always knotted so tightly, I always have some untying to tell before it's over. The wind walks through me, her secret friend my only absolute.
The gray winds abound, casting its wild magic upon the dust and trees. I smoke in slow circles, pacing the fissures of old worry, tromping my way through the dirt. I pause to watch the wires dance, swaying in the limbs above, trailing wild strops of smoke against the back of the sky. A flit from the corner of my seeing eye, I turn to make a spider still, dressed in its shine of startled armor. Limo black and a distressed red, the jumping spider waits to scry my appetites. Am I enemy or am I irrelevant? It moves on, reading me cold.
I couldn't count all the mistakes I made, considering I am usually making new ones with every move and breath. An alarm sounds somewhere in the baffling distance. I listen through the web of songs and dogs, hearing little but the wind. The cigar butt cools in the ashtray. Little measure never even marking the map. The ritual's always the last things we leave. A scrub jay complains from the bones of a chopped-down peach tree. I couldn't even pretend I could claim to disagree.
I pass a web clinging in a corner, a handful of dead peach blossoms scattered like shed spider shells, pausing strange before the sight. They swing and sway upon the lines, held as if in suspense of breath. There is a geometry of intersections, of paths and notions crossed, a sizzling of neurons whispering where sense and surface blend. The idea of distinction so different from its skin. I stray along the paving where the gravel greets the clay, a parapet of outers and inners to pace and grope and claim. The roads are always knotted so tightly, I always have some untying to tell before it's over. The wind walks through me, her secret friend my only absolute.
waste
There never was another reason except that there was a road. There was never any path other than the one downhill. The years went by, the rest went nowhere. Debt and loss and the contempt of everyone around. Madness and tears and all the voices joined, the dismal sound of your own breath another noise needing snuffing.
The confusion makes the fury, and the fury tells the story. Here come the list of wrongs endure, the names of each double crosser. It is even true sometimes, which only adds to every fire, the sadness which you're made from the fuel and the spark. The mind is stuck in litany, unable to refrain from repetition and refrain. Once you think about, it seems silly that you stayed around so long.
You are bruised and covered in cuts and scrapes. Another absurd labor done for rejection, another beating taken to make this case for oblivion. You are old enough to know that you are the reason you won't get better. The sickness just grows until it is all you are, sickness peeping out from the abattoir of your wasted skull. In the end all you are owed is the death you deserve. Sometimes all that is left is to settle up and punch out.
There never was another reason except that there was a road. There was never any path other than the one downhill. The years went by, the rest went nowhere. Debt and loss and the contempt of everyone around. Madness and tears and all the voices joined, the dismal sound of your own breath another noise needing snuffing.
The confusion makes the fury, and the fury tells the story. Here come the list of wrongs endure, the names of each double crosser. It is even true sometimes, which only adds to every fire, the sadness which you're made from the fuel and the spark. The mind is stuck in litany, unable to refrain from repetition and refrain. Once you think about, it seems silly that you stayed around so long.
You are bruised and covered in cuts and scrapes. Another absurd labor done for rejection, another beating taken to make this case for oblivion. You are old enough to know that you are the reason you won't get better. The sickness just grows until it is all you are, sickness peeping out from the abattoir of your wasted skull. In the end all you are owed is the death you deserve. Sometimes all that is left is to settle up and punch out.
humbled
I need just enough sleep to keep the night out, just enough roof to shit the sky out, that feeling of falling about all I know. The gray day seeps in somehow, the old aches seething straight down to the bones. The hush of tires on the wet road, the nattering of gears in the dark. Every promise plugged into something. Every oath a button pressed. The sirens sound and the dogs let loose. I am staring at the shadows. I am sitting in the dark.
Stared at by the shining eyes of electronics, the world always winding away inside these secrets, the pace kept even while sleeping. Every breath comes back in coughs and sputters. Each leaning some struggle with-in the blood, these glowing screens and comfort noises squeezed from our fingers and our phones. Something falls outside the house, even the walls allowing stunned alarms. Wind chimes peal and the rain comes unsteady. The still house trembles in the weather as winter drains away.
There's no use for your culture heroes. There's no need to drag around ghosts. The world is enough a stranger that it needs no disguises. The truth is harder than horror stories, why deify our brutal aimless deaths? I sleep and wake in fitful stretches and empty stretches, the window open to the alien eyes of the night and the ruckus run amok of the day. I linger here, hunched over a few meager empirical hopes. The words clip clop in dull cliche, fumbling with my thumbs and contexts, always working towards the muddle. Meaning gleaned only after an eternity lost to time. The story told only to hold back all these fallen stars.
I need just enough sleep to keep the night out, just enough roof to shit the sky out, that feeling of falling about all I know. The gray day seeps in somehow, the old aches seething straight down to the bones. The hush of tires on the wet road, the nattering of gears in the dark. Every promise plugged into something. Every oath a button pressed. The sirens sound and the dogs let loose. I am staring at the shadows. I am sitting in the dark.
Stared at by the shining eyes of electronics, the world always winding away inside these secrets, the pace kept even while sleeping. Every breath comes back in coughs and sputters. Each leaning some struggle with-in the blood, these glowing screens and comfort noises squeezed from our fingers and our phones. Something falls outside the house, even the walls allowing stunned alarms. Wind chimes peal and the rain comes unsteady. The still house trembles in the weather as winter drains away.
There's no use for your culture heroes. There's no need to drag around ghosts. The world is enough a stranger that it needs no disguises. The truth is harder than horror stories, why deify our brutal aimless deaths? I sleep and wake in fitful stretches and empty stretches, the window open to the alien eyes of the night and the ruckus run amok of the day. I linger here, hunched over a few meager empirical hopes. The words clip clop in dull cliche, fumbling with my thumbs and contexts, always working towards the muddle. Meaning gleaned only after an eternity lost to time. The story told only to hold back all these fallen stars.
nuremburg
The list of crimes goes on and on. It makes it so hard to choose. The light that leaves, the lamp left burning. The story that never seems to fit. The words just silk between your fingers. The line stitched directly in the skin, read aloud to the cold cruel sky. This is how you meet your maker as he tries to lay you in your grave. This is how you know your place, finding none left for you.
I feel the weight of the absent sun, the press of the sorrow in the walls. My name only written ever in dust. The reasons all me flailing, always a little far from the shore. The lesson my undoing, every stroke more evidence I need erasing. Another room to be lost inside, another door to hold me back. I feel as if I should say your name. I don't know what I am learning.
We are what becomes of justice. We are each of us someone's last laugh. The story never where we left it, while we held our breath the world moved on. Somehow the thought so much the burden, the only thing lost hard the thing that will never be. The days all dust, tomorrows all scattered. The names and numbers the only lie left. The shadows swallow every ache, the sorrow every wonder. Our sentence served interminable, the future too far to follow.
The list of crimes goes on and on. It makes it so hard to choose. The light that leaves, the lamp left burning. The story that never seems to fit. The words just silk between your fingers. The line stitched directly in the skin, read aloud to the cold cruel sky. This is how you meet your maker as he tries to lay you in your grave. This is how you know your place, finding none left for you.
I feel the weight of the absent sun, the press of the sorrow in the walls. My name only written ever in dust. The reasons all me flailing, always a little far from the shore. The lesson my undoing, every stroke more evidence I need erasing. Another room to be lost inside, another door to hold me back. I feel as if I should say your name. I don't know what I am learning.
We are what becomes of justice. We are each of us someone's last laugh. The story never where we left it, while we held our breath the world moved on. Somehow the thought so much the burden, the only thing lost hard the thing that will never be. The days all dust, tomorrows all scattered. The names and numbers the only lie left. The shadows swallow every ache, the sorrow every wonder. Our sentence served interminable, the future too far to follow.
crossed
There is a trick we all endure, moving as we do from place to place, leaving blurry constellations of spittle and ash at our feet. There is a glint of recognition there in these landscapes we only know from dreams. These wild intuitions, this animal abandon. The maps we make with our mouths and our fingers, the maps we learn inside another's heart. We sweep the path and scatter the ashes. Every day always the one we have just begun.
We are here until we reach the limit, then just as quick we are long gone. The evening shadows reaching towards the street, the setting sun another wager placed, easy money twice as easy when it goes. The shadows stretch in swathes and fingers, grasping every ever-after by the throat. Close your eyes or loose your tongue, in the end all reasons wind up equal. Our time always running down, stars burning into oblivion, sand skittering down the fitted glass. Our time always a bunch of words we gather, and whatever we have right now.
Take my hand and I will lead you. Take my hand, you have nothing left to lose. The blow by blow of each carnival attraction when all you wanted is a home for all your heartache. The dull remittance of every sin when the anguish and the sorrow were your only crimes. The stories they tell you are true enough, and as for worries, legions of them are waiting behind every door. If you pay attention the odds are always against you. Our fates are made already if there is no choice to find. Our crossed stars are right there in the sky. But if the chances are ours to take, why not start with love?
There is a trick we all endure, moving as we do from place to place, leaving blurry constellations of spittle and ash at our feet. There is a glint of recognition there in these landscapes we only know from dreams. These wild intuitions, this animal abandon. The maps we make with our mouths and our fingers, the maps we learn inside another's heart. We sweep the path and scatter the ashes. Every day always the one we have just begun.
We are here until we reach the limit, then just as quick we are long gone. The evening shadows reaching towards the street, the setting sun another wager placed, easy money twice as easy when it goes. The shadows stretch in swathes and fingers, grasping every ever-after by the throat. Close your eyes or loose your tongue, in the end all reasons wind up equal. Our time always running down, stars burning into oblivion, sand skittering down the fitted glass. Our time always a bunch of words we gather, and whatever we have right now.
Take my hand and I will lead you. Take my hand, you have nothing left to lose. The blow by blow of each carnival attraction when all you wanted is a home for all your heartache. The dull remittance of every sin when the anguish and the sorrow were your only crimes. The stories they tell you are true enough, and as for worries, legions of them are waiting behind every door. If you pay attention the odds are always against you. Our fates are made already if there is no choice to find. Our crossed stars are right there in the sky. But if the chances are ours to take, why not start with love?
tending to the tide
I wake early, but at least I wake. Dreams slowly drained from the inflamed and confused senses, the drift of self like a symptom of some chronic condition, the weight of identity embarrassingly heavy draped across my limbs. I shuffle into whatever shoes are closest, push through the tangled thrill of dogs into the hallway, to the beacon light of the bathroom to see if my kidneys are still working. I make uncertain water, so very aware of the years pissed away, painful and pitiful and utterly without surprise.
I cough clouds of fitful steam beneath these plots of clouds and stars, familiar constellations lingering on the roof. I stumble with lock and key, pick up whatever paper the morning means today. I scan the street, see where it sleeps and where it is stirring. The stage is slow but full of furtive witness, whether the first early bird of the morning or the last stragglers of the night. I go inside and search for clues of your coming in every place that isn't here. I start my day between wish and ache, wanting you before I have a name.
Somehow the mirror is still there staring. Somehow the sun slips its fingers in, always ready to pour it on. I drink my coffee and I keep my place. The world dances on and on. I teeter on the balance board of utility and ruin, scuffing along this dull calling. Scraping by on the bones cast off by this ravening nation of ghosts and demons, sifting through the stars and words until I get a glimmer of condensation. I mind the ancient proprieties and speak your name out loud. The spell is cast, the die is tossed, I am tending to the tide of all my tomorrows. Every day I choose my poison, always wishing it was you.
I wake early, but at least I wake. Dreams slowly drained from the inflamed and confused senses, the drift of self like a symptom of some chronic condition, the weight of identity embarrassingly heavy draped across my limbs. I shuffle into whatever shoes are closest, push through the tangled thrill of dogs into the hallway, to the beacon light of the bathroom to see if my kidneys are still working. I make uncertain water, so very aware of the years pissed away, painful and pitiful and utterly without surprise.
I cough clouds of fitful steam beneath these plots of clouds and stars, familiar constellations lingering on the roof. I stumble with lock and key, pick up whatever paper the morning means today. I scan the street, see where it sleeps and where it is stirring. The stage is slow but full of furtive witness, whether the first early bird of the morning or the last stragglers of the night. I go inside and search for clues of your coming in every place that isn't here. I start my day between wish and ache, wanting you before I have a name.
Somehow the mirror is still there staring. Somehow the sun slips its fingers in, always ready to pour it on. I drink my coffee and I keep my place. The world dances on and on. I teeter on the balance board of utility and ruin, scuffing along this dull calling. Scraping by on the bones cast off by this ravening nation of ghosts and demons, sifting through the stars and words until I get a glimmer of condensation. I mind the ancient proprieties and speak your name out loud. The spell is cast, the die is tossed, I am tending to the tide of all my tomorrows. Every day I choose my poison, always wishing it was you.
Happy New to all you creeps and creepettes out there. This will be my final blog entry on SG. My stay here was over long and way too wide, so I am heading in that happy trails direction. Any pals or other gawkers will still be able to reach me here until February when my SG membership wil end. If you were a reader of my nonsense, I will be posting the same sort of prose poem junk on The Blood/Ghost Ratio over at blogger for the considered future. So, ya know-- do what you like.
Stay sweet and crazy, and have a great summer!
Stay sweet and crazy, and have a great summer!
a little off the top
There are always going to be adjustments. The game can change as long as the ball is in play. One day it is all want and promise. The next they say what they really mean. At least maybe you can run for cover. At least maybe this way you can cut your losses. The dream must end when you speak the truth.
So young to know that you are beaten. So young to know you outlived your time. The records spins, somewhere in your past, the one that hissed and spat. The old poems lost in their boxes. This shuffle of words and dust dissolved in the bright winter sky. An oath sworn on radio waves, a promise made to vapor trails while the sun burns and burns. The children laugh and dance in circles. Their worlds still too green to burn.
The papers talk of impending endings. Doom cast in the shape of the ancient incantations, hell made from the sweepings of broken spells. Somehow the magic keeps happening. Somehow the illusion abides. The way the world is always posted in anticipation of its changing. The way all the words are wasted while someone waits their turn. The last days spent rooting through the sales bins. The last days spent sharing every ache with strangers. Every romance left you just confused suspense.
There are always going to be adjustments. The game can change as long as the ball is in play. One day it is all want and promise. The next they say what they really mean. At least maybe you can run for cover. At least maybe this way you can cut your losses. The dream must end when you speak the truth.
So young to know that you are beaten. So young to know you outlived your time. The records spins, somewhere in your past, the one that hissed and spat. The old poems lost in their boxes. This shuffle of words and dust dissolved in the bright winter sky. An oath sworn on radio waves, a promise made to vapor trails while the sun burns and burns. The children laugh and dance in circles. Their worlds still too green to burn.
The papers talk of impending endings. Doom cast in the shape of the ancient incantations, hell made from the sweepings of broken spells. Somehow the magic keeps happening. Somehow the illusion abides. The way the world is always posted in anticipation of its changing. The way all the words are wasted while someone waits their turn. The last days spent rooting through the sales bins. The last days spent sharing every ache with strangers. Every romance left you just confused suspense.
oblivion
You trace your scars like constellations, you sweep the street eyes loaded and ready to bear. The night comes with its compliment of stars and ice all hidden by the bright and bloated moon. There is an itch the nails aren't reaching, there are pieces of a broken pot lodged inside your heart. It hurts because it is still beating, it hurts because the lights are on. You pace the yard and cast your shadow, then turn towards it and tramp it down. You know it's you because who else could it be, here in the middle of all this busted scenery. You know it's you because no-one would be inside this mess if they didn't have to be.
Again the wisdom of the knife, the preaching of the hammer. The murderers deny each time their tools their share of glory. The blind spot never entirely in the eyes. The critique the lost blaming the map. The cold thinks it is invited because you let the fire die. God always in the margins, messing with the doors and windows. It isn't the recipe that is the disaster when you consider the ingredients.
You write it down like it was gospel. You write it like the origin story of an open book. The words forget their purpose when spoken of so wrong. The mantra is the open vein, the dogma is the loaded pistol. Your heart will try to tell the truth, but language always takes its cut. The pain is measured by the distance, the stretch of light along the horizon, the sky speckled with ancient shine. The empty is so wide we make up things to fill it. The empty is so vast it is all there is. Painted pretty like those pictures in your childhood fairy tales. Painted pretty like your love before you bury it forever in the cold dark earth.
You trace your scars like constellations, you sweep the street eyes loaded and ready to bear. The night comes with its compliment of stars and ice all hidden by the bright and bloated moon. There is an itch the nails aren't reaching, there are pieces of a broken pot lodged inside your heart. It hurts because it is still beating, it hurts because the lights are on. You pace the yard and cast your shadow, then turn towards it and tramp it down. You know it's you because who else could it be, here in the middle of all this busted scenery. You know it's you because no-one would be inside this mess if they didn't have to be.
Again the wisdom of the knife, the preaching of the hammer. The murderers deny each time their tools their share of glory. The blind spot never entirely in the eyes. The critique the lost blaming the map. The cold thinks it is invited because you let the fire die. God always in the margins, messing with the doors and windows. It isn't the recipe that is the disaster when you consider the ingredients.
You write it down like it was gospel. You write it like the origin story of an open book. The words forget their purpose when spoken of so wrong. The mantra is the open vein, the dogma is the loaded pistol. Your heart will try to tell the truth, but language always takes its cut. The pain is measured by the distance, the stretch of light along the horizon, the sky speckled with ancient shine. The empty is so wide we make up things to fill it. The empty is so vast it is all there is. Painted pretty like those pictures in your childhood fairy tales. Painted pretty like your love before you bury it forever in the cold dark earth.
ubiquity
It is the same icy wind blowing through me, the same afternoon no matter what the calendar says. The same gray light drowning all about. The same sad sinking invisible sun lost among the clouds. The rain making rings in the puddles. The smoke seeping from between my lips. This dull refrain, this crushing ubiquity.
The dogs all track the mud in. My fingers make no sense. Yet another brace of letters. Yet another posit to disprove. The rain pounds down through the pines, making needle and leaf dance and glitter. The deluge falls in strings of syntax, the argument spatters across the leaky roof. All I hear is the tapping of each retort, the din of this debate. I suppose we all have our reasons. I suppose I might even have one myself.
Each syllogism is a symptom of these symbols. Each philosophy a stitch in my breathing, every contention something caught in my throat. All my words gather in puddles and empty pots. All my stories left outside too long. I write the same lines, the way they fell from from heaven, the way they first sang it all into being. I draw another breath of smoke to keep the embers going. All this wind and ash only to keep this fire alive.
It is the same icy wind blowing through me, the same afternoon no matter what the calendar says. The same gray light drowning all about. The same sad sinking invisible sun lost among the clouds. The rain making rings in the puddles. The smoke seeping from between my lips. This dull refrain, this crushing ubiquity.
The dogs all track the mud in. My fingers make no sense. Yet another brace of letters. Yet another posit to disprove. The rain pounds down through the pines, making needle and leaf dance and glitter. The deluge falls in strings of syntax, the argument spatters across the leaky roof. All I hear is the tapping of each retort, the din of this debate. I suppose we all have our reasons. I suppose I might even have one myself.
Each syllogism is a symptom of these symbols. Each philosophy a stitch in my breathing, every contention something caught in my throat. All my words gather in puddles and empty pots. All my stories left outside too long. I write the same lines, the way they fell from from heaven, the way they first sang it all into being. I draw another breath of smoke to keep the embers going. All this wind and ash only to keep this fire alive.
