Sit and watch the windowed dryer,
with the clothes mutely tumbling around,
and perhaps you'll feel as I have,
insulated from the world, spinning your thoughts,
like some freewheel without a brake,
but my body does not comply long,
and soon in a stupor I lean too far one way,
and nudge the cold bus window beside me,
(yes, I am riding a bus in the moment)
and a shock of cold on my shoulder
disrupts the dull uniform temperature
within my space.
Hello again.
Late this evening the rain hit me
and I realized, while most often I saw
the drops as a body, coursing this way and that to the earth,
today I have watched oddly, eyes darting here and there,
frenetically attempting to catch each droplet,
assembling each frame in my head,
as if the snapshots would help my concentration.
Free hair, furrowed forehead, arid face,
bowing out, "you've won", but have I lost?
"Miss?" no reply, "what a mess" says she,
wave my hands with a mighty thrust,
but her eyes block out the pain, the interaction.
Like a censored scene, a show on mute,
"I'm sorry" is only "-'- ----"
and the fuss of old cell networks winding through rock,
is the sole noise even to the ready listener.
Riding across the water,
I witnessed the fog burning off the hills,
the lifting of a great weight from my home,
as I watched from far, out on the lake.
Had I forgotten how beautiful you are,
or lost touch with the pulsing memory in my hand in your hand,
that my heart leapt out of its comfort,
and the love in your eyes carried me through?
It was like resting on a sheet of glass,
that shattered when I awoke,
and in the numbness of waking, I felt nothing
of the piercing dust that took flight,
and I was left with an empty feeling of want
as if I needed to sense that which hurt me.
"I follow the beat of my own heart"
travel the hill up to find the sheer drop
as your jaw gapes down, and your gaze falls,
it is decidedly grim and you decree your utter loss,
at the first depression in the way.
Walking through the house,
I crane my neck no further than a logical step,
and toward the fading edge, a mental event horizon,
I watch a procession of strangers carry my belongings,
but as in dreamy stupor I find my tongue wagging in agreement.
As the hatch in my head shuts,
I am struck by the loss and barter it all back,
and in the comfort of so many familiar possessions,
I hush the shrieking tone which would beckon change,
as a caretaker for a sick person, how embarrassing!
Through the window, watch the baffled feathers,
stiff as the lattice of a snowflake,
adding a film to the scene beyond,
the strong wind held by glass, pacified.
Watch as the season shifts, summer to fall,
as this city would have it,
unpredictable in its temperance,
the visitors unfurl their umbrellas
while the natives soak in the surprise.
It's like the surprise of coming home to the same meal most every night,
shocking in its regularity and its ability to cancel any other expectation,
those that regard it as bad or ugly only miss a sense of control,
hey you, let go, relax.
With cold, hard confidence like a fly survives,
I read this morning paper,
but my jealously springs to life,
and the pompous thrust of my wings only spreads the poison.
I felt that beautiful shudder
of forgotten dreams whisk my heart above my hair,
with an aftershock that welled up in my bones,
betraying my feelings, it had never left me.
"Turn over my dear so I may look upon your face,"
but my eyes are stiff and my mind is hewn,
a gaze that is as straight as a measuring rod and wholly alien,
and thoughts that only read and never write,
oh the fight they will put up this evening,
like contact plates that come together under violence.
She sees me and a harsh word knocks the wind out of me,
a beckoning call eats my rest until I am lying on a ledge,
exposed to water and falling leaves,
and all the while my mind proves unable to branch out.
Before I knew the dim history of my distant fathers,
I thought of Constantine as the name of a steady heartbeat,
or an everflowing river, eager to run and never tired,
for this is what I have always strove to become.
For now, I am more a tempermental volcano,
intermittent and distracted, my thoughts sputter and blow out,
long before they have reached their conclusive end,
yet I long to emerge with a steady beat of the drum,
eating the love and devotion I sought.
My eyes define the edge,
and relieve to see the clock still holds time,
etching thin lines between numbers,
dividing minutes in its digital insides,
counting the span I've lapsed,
from now until next week.
What sets the tone for a scene,
the way the sky calmly eeks out the rain,
slowly as if it has all day,
or perhaps how the ground covers itself with
dull bark surrounding old landscaping,
peppered equally with cigarette butts
as with aged helicopter seeds?
The brutality of my honest mouth,
weighs short into a world of stenciled oddities,
frayed denim meshed with soft words of denial,
and I sound off at inaudible levels,
finding my voice offensive to my own senses,
and so I often pinch the connection between head and tongue,
yet the thoughts throb onward and I struggle to read their scrawl.
Rigid letters that spell in primary colors,
run through my mind and rewrite my very instinct,
while I fumble for my mental spectacles,
yet I cannot rescind any responsibility,
even as they run end to end in my head,
it is still mine, I have not lost my mind.
When I look down at the floor,
that concrete level,
and you catch me swallow,
with the gaze of your eye,
I am not hiding nor ashamed,
yet learning how to support some memories,
and tear down other thought.
I had gathered many flower petals,
to freeze them into a frame for this spring,
but I watched them melt together,
forming a sticky web of past-ripe color,
and it was good to move on.
Drawing images in my head,
hurriedly moving on, blurring into a moving-picture,
rarely coinciding the conception with its physical manifestation,
and so my thought, kept in secret, often dies silently.
Commonly, I try to fit myself, my very consciousness,
into a space too small in my imagination,
some choked spiral or a receding square keyhole,
these moments have nothing conceptual to stand on (emotivated).
Perhaps that is my ceiling with art,
a moment cannot be captured,
so much as restated, retold,
to experience it, it must be lived.
Collared and fly-high,
you reared the Spring with a deft twitch,
fighting against the clear sky,
eating time as a dog gnaws on a bone.
What hounds you is the gray freckle in your head,
the grey spike in your eye,
tailing your ambitions,
fretting the brow of high thought.
Like a plane,
buzzing around war and disaster,
my mind perceives crystalline fractures,
making not one loop,
but many, intertwined to confuse their trails.
I cannot retrace my steps,
rather the swoops and smears
describe my temper,
and I quickly lose specific memories,
to breath and know the atmosphere.
Remember those kid images of the world with a face,
an expression to describe the sentiments of health or sorrow,
only now do I sometimes imagine that,
my world coming complete with a mood,
not mine of the moment, but my natural outlook,
a cloud-filled sky for the cynic and smirk for the opportunist.
Collateral on Snoqualmie Pass from this crazy winter. This camera won't be reporting traffic any longer. (image from the wsdot.wa.gov website)
Sleeping on my stomach,
I would dream of boot straps,
the sun reflecting in the sand,
or the sinking feeling of mud on my palms,
supporting me with the sludge created in the rain.
My mouth speaks to my ear:
"what do you feel?"
but the ear is unable to reply,
will I wake in desperation or
pick up a new book to write,
to forget by the morning.
We all see so narrowly,
of a wide band, we perceive only a sliver,
parading over our objective,
a parody around the ingrained judgments we live by.
And in this highly subjective light,
it seems so easy to be critical,
and so difficult to find anything good,
to be sure, everything we cast our gaze upon,
has much that might possibly be wanting overhaul.
My eyes are already not what they used to be,
and perhaps I would understand what I touched on,
if I weren't to look, but it's all about perception,
whether we are satisfied or anxious,
and what holds weight in our world, our tiny skulls.
short, sharp, jumpy fin-
stubbed, trigger-happ-
stunted, jagged, stuttering fingers,
pointed, solid, triangular, bony joints.
Building cube-like, block-type,
stacked one-on-another boxes,
towering rectangles that stretch,
and catch the eye with every twitch.
fixed ears, boxed passages,
jagged slopes, gradual mountains,
stashed cinders, old tails and tags,
all to render your mouth asunder.
To mass my thoughts:
how often does the sun glint
past the eye into our sense of happiness,
when does the morning mist comfort
the nose as well as our inner cloud?
Careful what you sell,
what you call your own,
may not be so,
and what is,
you may find yourself needing later.
The admiration of more than you possess,
will lead only to fret and fury,
especially what you cannot have,
will make you throw off what you do,
following your nose may lead down a pit.
Stick your neck out,
for the right things,
it will help you value them,
and lose the crooked knots we often hold.
Like a child wanting to grow up,
but only desiring the sweet desserts,
I follow you when I want to become more,
my nose leading me to winding wisps,
like Siamese twins pulling each way.
If I were given wings I might explore the sea,
in an effort to understand the fish,
and only remember my members' purpose,
as I failed to breathe in the atmosphere,
and emerged waterlogged onto the beach.
Dreaming through class, presently important,
you feel dizzy as if you stood up too fast,
looking ahead, you see the incredible uphill,
and each battled-over step leaves you weaker,
yet in reflection, every move feeds your hunger,
I encourage you, struggle for the equilibrium,
at which your final wind shall blow open new breath.
20 years of synaptic fires,
has led to so much cross talk,
nearly joining 'hello' and 'goodbye',
like waking up to a roommate's alarm,
rather than your own.
It would lead one to want amnesia,
and being an amnesiac, ask those around
what has gone on all these years,
to realign thoughts, to straighten up the spine,
to shiver at the tragic remembrances.
Truly, to re-member the body,
to feel those scars, won or weathered,
afresh like the day you probably earned them,
and collectively, your peers serve to triangulate,
on your location, but what if you are not on site?
Imagining life as a giant,
I find the hardest part,
to be eating enough,
burning calories chasing,
small morsels around,
only to find your strength,
thinning like melting ice.
Next time,
I will be,
cautious,
to stay,
my mouth,
from feeding,
before I,
heed the food,
pyramid.
I want the impossible in big-block letters,
to be the size and strength of an ant,
free of pride and subject to the elements...
This curious food that would make me journey,
is taken from the root of humility,
so the taker is caught up in its pursuit.
Like a slang pipeline which spirals out of view,
only while you look away,
does it swing far into the purpose.
Just like you imagined,
a soundtrack,
needs its visual part.
