the milk, once spilled
The day breaks in its old half-hearted way, bright in cusps and pardons. It clings to the borders and fills in the gaps with its blustered over abundance. The sun rises, another day begins. I forget what happens next.
The heat endures, another day of summer slowly undone. That sweep of light and fever, those secrets of sweat and ache. I watch the shadows stretch, the east enduring that inevitable leaning towards the west. The light flattens and intensifies, blunt and unrepentant. It has its say in these glistening salty traces of flesh and languor, and lays itself out bare before the hungering dusk.
I watch, sick by design and neglect. Each dose is a fresh tide, each dose a sullen tongue keeping its own lone counsel. I await the stars and the owls, the prowling and the skulking, the dismal unappreciated ease of the world without. I watch, eyes failing, all motive and little crime.
The day breaks in its old half-hearted way, bright in cusps and pardons. It clings to the borders and fills in the gaps with its blustered over abundance. The sun rises, another day begins. I forget what happens next.
The heat endures, another day of summer slowly undone. That sweep of light and fever, those secrets of sweat and ache. I watch the shadows stretch, the east enduring that inevitable leaning towards the west. The light flattens and intensifies, blunt and unrepentant. It has its say in these glistening salty traces of flesh and languor, and lays itself out bare before the hungering dusk.
I watch, sick by design and neglect. Each dose is a fresh tide, each dose a sullen tongue keeping its own lone counsel. I await the stars and the owls, the prowling and the skulking, the dismal unappreciated ease of the world without. I watch, eyes failing, all motive and little crime.
Sweep the skies with all those useless lights, burn away the day with embers that simmer and fade. Watch the horizon line from the precipice, watch it from the thin mirror of that rattling train, distance drowns every longing, it smothers every attempt to see. The nearest mountains, the last town, the gas station or the power line gallows pieced together from hints and shadows. The seal was split long ago, the horsemen nothing but the memories of bones. Any evidence of hope or choice swallowed by that ambling calendar tide, the fierce unrelenting assault of each blurred and bleary day. Kiss who you will, take what you must. There is no lens that will find you a trace of the stitch-work. There is no medicine that will outlast the lingering of the feel.
For the long line waiting, for the color of skin mingled with shadows, for all the best I have wasted and all the bitter others have swallowed I wish just a little. I lean against the softening wall with my hard and tender head and pray for mass. I breath in whispers of my last tainted breath and lay my pallid faith square in the lap of matter. Everything so much empty space, and all these bandwidths and distractions just forces woven tight enough for us to feel their gaps, halos painted from Rutherford-Bohr model atoms, auras cast in the broad and invisible bulk of the spectrum. Trusts and hopes concave and convex, while I hold mostly still, perplexed by this hint of complexity, the conception and the exhaustion of all these lapsed possibilities.
This lack built of fading memories and failing reach, this dry clutch, this bare air. How long will the stars fade and expire in the kingdom of our eyes? How long will we spin and chirp in this dervish grin? The lost, last kisses pressed like bible flowers, fragile and hollow and precious with the tension of all things saved. I lean into the bold blue and the white heat, the songs I sing without knowing them, the music birthed of being and thinking all at once. Thoughts slow, wishes still, and words stop their campaigns so abruptly, we think they were never there at all. I can not separate the want from the absence, the song from the singing. Everything just poems and appetites, and countries I will never know. Everything light remembered after dark.
This lack built of fading memories and failing reach, this dry clutch, this bare air. How long will the stars fade and expire in the kingdom of our eyes? How long will we spin and chirp in this dervish grin? The lost, last kisses pressed like bible flowers, fragile and hollow and precious with the tension of all things saved. I lean into the bold blue and the white heat, the songs I sing without knowing them, the music birthed of being and thinking all at once. Thoughts slow, wishes still, and words stop their campaigns so abruptly, we think they were never there at all. I can not separate the want from the absence, the song from the singing. Everything just poems and appetites, and countries I will never know. Everything light remembered after dark.
The dusk tastes of gravity and despair, so far into the depths of gray buried in the bright blue vanishing horizon. Wake with the moon, watch all the streets in a fading fever dream, feel the slow dissolution of your grasp spilling from your fingers. Everything so like a song, old David Bowie, traces of The Knux. The threadbare whispers of native tongue assimilating with the staggered and the strange. Change the only collection, the final constant.
Weary motion, dragged chains and bridal tides, these abrupt conversations, the skirmishes and border wars. A lifetime spent in the patois of changing definitions until everyone you know is another country, an alien world. Memories that hiss and skip like the vinyl that hums through your blood, the record ends with yet another frontier. You pass the plate at each service, gathering only more requests. Soon you only sing in translation, your heart remaindered to liner notes no-one bothers even to read. Dust in the needle, heaven awash with abrupt and forgotten stars.
Weary motion, dragged chains and bridal tides, these abrupt conversations, the skirmishes and border wars. A lifetime spent in the patois of changing definitions until everyone you know is another country, an alien world. Memories that hiss and skip like the vinyl that hums through your blood, the record ends with yet another frontier. You pass the plate at each service, gathering only more requests. Soon you only sing in translation, your heart remaindered to liner notes no-one bothers even to read. Dust in the needle, heaven awash with abrupt and forgotten stars.
Only the moon watches, its gaze sickly and taut with the jealously of one million breathless years. Only the moon knows the shallow breaths and the the shoveled tongue, the words that burned the forests of your heart bitter and black. A there are thousands of miles scratching at your skin, the journeys taken and the ones left in ruins behind your mind. The sky is awash with street lights and traffic and gas stations that never close, satellites and airplanes and the endless stare of that cold bloated moon.
The years have worn away even the least patina, the years have shed even the mask of human charms. All your love affairs end with other people's romances, letters tattered remnants of promises you would never keep. A rusted cough arises, some dark chatter buried in your depths. The night wears thin, with nothing but traffic and television, a flickering bulb and a poorly written book. Only the strays call, now that you no longer feed them. Only mossy habits, groaning from their tempered graves.
Every door is locked, every phone goes straight to voice mail, every welcome tattered carelessly long ago. Days go by, months and seasons tangle, the rhythm of life tripping over the laces that never hold anything in place. Few choices, no answers, just a dead and shining rock that floods the horizon. Ghosts of heart aches wander through the dull husk of your skull, rattling their rusty old chains. The empty hours descend and feed upon your weary blood. Only that moon, and a clock that can't keep time to itself.
The years have worn away even the least patina, the years have shed even the mask of human charms. All your love affairs end with other people's romances, letters tattered remnants of promises you would never keep. A rusted cough arises, some dark chatter buried in your depths. The night wears thin, with nothing but traffic and television, a flickering bulb and a poorly written book. Only the strays call, now that you no longer feed them. Only mossy habits, groaning from their tempered graves.
Every door is locked, every phone goes straight to voice mail, every welcome tattered carelessly long ago. Days go by, months and seasons tangle, the rhythm of life tripping over the laces that never hold anything in place. Few choices, no answers, just a dead and shining rock that floods the horizon. Ghosts of heart aches wander through the dull husk of your skull, rattling their rusty old chains. The empty hours descend and feed upon your weary blood. Only that moon, and a clock that can't keep time to itself.
The word are there. There are words and words, and words some more. The story still is missing. Each line dissolves it further, each sentence ends the one before. Each sentence ends in a sentence. The words are through, the words will follow.
Oh the weight of the metal. Oh the flavor of steel. It is at the heart of this riddle, the bluff manners of oblivion. The darkness fills with shadows, which are slick with oil, which are sealed in dank earth and cold marble. The longed for stillness that endings masquerade as, the thought that at least the thoughts will cease. The explanation no one wants unravels, leaving streams on the blank face and threads in the tangled hair. No one ever meets that gaze. No one ever wakes up free.
The words settle in the blind depths, they grind down the gears. They wriggle in the guts and reaches. Those slabs of matter where meaning never penetrates. Say what you want, say where you think you are going. Try to untether this ache that is waiting. Tell your story, and wait for the end.
Oh the weight of the metal. Oh the flavor of steel. It is at the heart of this riddle, the bluff manners of oblivion. The darkness fills with shadows, which are slick with oil, which are sealed in dank earth and cold marble. The longed for stillness that endings masquerade as, the thought that at least the thoughts will cease. The explanation no one wants unravels, leaving streams on the blank face and threads in the tangled hair. No one ever meets that gaze. No one ever wakes up free.
The words settle in the blind depths, they grind down the gears. They wriggle in the guts and reaches. Those slabs of matter where meaning never penetrates. Say what you want, say where you think you are going. Try to untether this ache that is waiting. Tell your story, and wait for the end.
The cracked cup fumes in the way all things fume on their way to breaking, arguing the breadth of their purpose, awaiting the inevitable abandon of uselessness. The fractured vessel will do for now, that last prayer for the hopeless, for the terminally unloved. Outside the night hisses and pops, the false report of small arms fire that the wind makes of so many sputtering fireworks loosed upon the street. The night will hoot and holler, not knowing the reasons it tries so hard. Ash and scorch marks, empty bottles and the glowering weight of the hungering dawn.
For awhile the cup will hold, the night will sparkle and burst. Explosions that end in dwindling shimmers, libations that seem to sway and dance upon the last perilous edge of senses. The ease of connection, the limitless affectations and swollen oaths. Drink in the smoke, sleep in the fire. What ever isn't incinerated will soon be entombed in the fissured vessel of memory. What we gather we get to hold for awhile.
The sober hours remain unkind, the clear mirror, the spilled limits. However the words are coaxed and feathered, the remains are the same. Simple leavening for salt and cinders. An isolated phrase held up just so to the scratchy light. There lingers in some phantom limb those craved sensations, the scent of sweat, the warm agreement of flesh. A reflex of antipode, a loss of a certain kind the only thing ever truly kept. The fireworks flash and boom, leaving echos and ghosts. Cracks in the tempo, scars on the eyes. It holds up, this moment, for a moment. It holds up as it is dissembled into words and flavors, mutterings spattered against the resolve of darkness as it fades.
For awhile the cup will hold, the night will sparkle and burst. Explosions that end in dwindling shimmers, libations that seem to sway and dance upon the last perilous edge of senses. The ease of connection, the limitless affectations and swollen oaths. Drink in the smoke, sleep in the fire. What ever isn't incinerated will soon be entombed in the fissured vessel of memory. What we gather we get to hold for awhile.
The sober hours remain unkind, the clear mirror, the spilled limits. However the words are coaxed and feathered, the remains are the same. Simple leavening for salt and cinders. An isolated phrase held up just so to the scratchy light. There lingers in some phantom limb those craved sensations, the scent of sweat, the warm agreement of flesh. A reflex of antipode, a loss of a certain kind the only thing ever truly kept. The fireworks flash and boom, leaving echos and ghosts. Cracks in the tempo, scars on the eyes. It holds up, this moment, for a moment. It holds up as it is dissembled into words and flavors, mutterings spattered against the resolve of darkness as it fades.
Someday I will tell my story, arrow-straight, from root to bloom. I will not rely on cyphers and drive-by revelations, leaving traces lingering between the lines and behind the brick work. I will tighten my spokes and stop spinning my wheels, engaged at last with the moment and the road. Each key stroke won't find music, but the spread of letters might find a song. Someday I will be still enough to move again. Nothing hurts as much as the sameness we bend tomorrow towards.
The words are lost for the moment. They cling to steam, escape as risen vapor. They hide between the places and the things that fill them, always slipping slightly backwards, tumbling slowly just out of reach. Each line tracing some rumor comes like swimming through stone, though the pressure births no diamonds. The world flows past, all skies and shadows. Flames unfurl and smoke swallows all our prayers.
Language gives heed of thoughts that sieve through the brambles, like the memory of a friend long since lost to time. Remembering the old ease, the steady labor. The pleasure and belief. This hollow, lonesome hour spreads like burned oil, staining even the seeing of the spill. Trailing more hours, more days-- years left of regret and confusion. The seeds of this malignancy birthing whole fields of promise left fallow. Tomorrow just another word, flung carelessly against the empty page, meaning never.
The words are lost for the moment. They cling to steam, escape as risen vapor. They hide between the places and the things that fill them, always slipping slightly backwards, tumbling slowly just out of reach. Each line tracing some rumor comes like swimming through stone, though the pressure births no diamonds. The world flows past, all skies and shadows. Flames unfurl and smoke swallows all our prayers.
Language gives heed of thoughts that sieve through the brambles, like the memory of a friend long since lost to time. Remembering the old ease, the steady labor. The pleasure and belief. This hollow, lonesome hour spreads like burned oil, staining even the seeing of the spill. Trailing more hours, more days-- years left of regret and confusion. The seeds of this malignancy birthing whole fields of promise left fallow. Tomorrow just another word, flung carelessly against the empty page, meaning never.
So the death knell writes the story, the explanation we will share about what all this leaving means. Saccharine tattoos and curbside altars, cruel jokes and off-color remarks. All the fear and confusion and hysteria that hums just below the taut skin of all these continuing lives freed to blame and forgive, to steal and creep and reshape some other light into a few fading sparks that fit beneath a headline or beneath a banner ad. It is telling, the details we cling to, the reasons we reject. Our heros, our villains, our misunderstood geniuses and unrecognized saints frame the glut of our celebrity appetites. They explain the world in their victories and their crimes. They are the mythos of this beaten burden of a world.
Each spat eulogy, each sanctimonious chestnut hurled is a banner and a litmus test. A clipped schema that will separate friend from foe, kinsman and kindred spirit from outlier and opposing force. Venture an opinion on some pop culture trial or high profile divorce and you will soon be known by the side you pick. All this love, all this brushed brass and candle smoke, all serves to light our point upon the map, this song of self where everyone sings a chorus. What rings true, what wakes us from our dreams, what stirs the embers of our passions, we grant these graven idols, the names and faces of the borderlands we long for. We morn these ghosts in earnest subversion, the song of our hearts a bramble in the dark. Caught in these tangles, we call out to hear our voices ring in the emptiness of heaven. We call out so that we might some day be who we once were.
Each spat eulogy, each sanctimonious chestnut hurled is a banner and a litmus test. A clipped schema that will separate friend from foe, kinsman and kindred spirit from outlier and opposing force. Venture an opinion on some pop culture trial or high profile divorce and you will soon be known by the side you pick. All this love, all this brushed brass and candle smoke, all serves to light our point upon the map, this song of self where everyone sings a chorus. What rings true, what wakes us from our dreams, what stirs the embers of our passions, we grant these graven idols, the names and faces of the borderlands we long for. We morn these ghosts in earnest subversion, the song of our hearts a bramble in the dark. Caught in these tangles, we call out to hear our voices ring in the emptiness of heaven. We call out so that we might some day be who we once were.
.cactus flower
Eyes closed I don't know
that you are sleeping.
Eyes opened I don't know
that you can see.
To begin anew too much like wishing,
to end at last to much like escape.
Over night the cactus blooms,
flaring pink and yellow
straight from the mystery of dreaming.
Change is constant
from the rising of the day
to the chilling of the flesh--
that insistent fever
bound inevitably to break.
The rising tide where I close
your eyes, the dream and the toil
give way to ash and polished stone.
The stars we only know
seem from long ago,
the night now lost
these blinding, writhing streets.
These last breaths rise,
a polity of chitinous angels
reclaiming the flesh as birthright--
so fierce and slow the motions
concealed beneath the earth.
The light passes, a problem of
sudden geometry. The rough
world averaging out curved smooth,
so hard to cling to when certainty
slips, despite the dawn,
there is the silence of the answer.
Eyes closed I don't know
that you are sleeping.
Eyes opened I don't know
that you can see.
To begin anew too much like wishing,
to end at last to much like escape.
Over night the cactus blooms,
flaring pink and yellow
straight from the mystery of dreaming.
Change is constant
from the rising of the day
to the chilling of the flesh--
that insistent fever
bound inevitably to break.
The rising tide where I close
your eyes, the dream and the toil
give way to ash and polished stone.
The stars we only know
seem from long ago,
the night now lost
these blinding, writhing streets.
These last breaths rise,
a polity of chitinous angels
reclaiming the flesh as birthright--
so fierce and slow the motions
concealed beneath the earth.
The light passes, a problem of
sudden geometry. The rough
world averaging out curved smooth,
so hard to cling to when certainty
slips, despite the dawn,
there is the silence of the answer.
