A year of summer, the lawn
turning crisper and crisper,
no tully fog creeping
into the valley to soften the burn.
Watching as the sun drips light like a melting god
and the noon comes with the urgency of a death knell.
Seeing the morning sky clear as a bottomless lake
and the night dark as a dry well.
Hearing limbs relax into pools of bone and flesh
and minds tense between a few recalled words.
The distant deliverance of cold rain
echoes in the future,
while the repeater of heat
flash forwards to yesterday.
Touching my temple,
seeing more and more and less and less,
meaning flickers inside a dusty bulb.
This is something simple I’ll forget someday,
what it means to never leave the fire.
The only thing worse than Black Friday Sales starting a day early is when Post Christmas Sales start a day early.
Nice guys are great! They make better coffee. – Imagined Steve Jobs
Sunset slides by in stoic moments,
Beauty denied by absent eyes,
Colors and columns, the streaking
Fury of a riderless chariot,
Cold spray rising below the rocks,
This is the world when we don’t care.
Lost at sea, clouds hover
At the horizon, further from me
Than the moon is from the sun,
Interstellar puffs holding in
A gift of life; cruel misers.
Drifting dreams cross the sea
Reaching me in my hammock.
I listen to them and chuckle,
So that’s what I should want:
Crossed palms and a hammock.
Oh well, I’ll do with straight palms
Slippery these words we sing.
They slither and slide through slaloms of vowels.
Grasping one, I wonder aloud,
“Do these sounds come for the satisfied calm
of a sailor seeing land on the horizon?
Do they arise from the full belly
of our collective cache of joy?
Do they lie in wait to immortalize the sunset?”
I wonder and listen to her shuffling feet
as she hums sounds absent the meaning,
the pauses and glides glisten on her lips,
the momentary drawl leaning
over the chasm between beats.
I say, “ I love to listen to your sounds.”
She smiles and opens a window
Winter comes at night,
Through the haze of twilight,
When we’re the least aware,
All as the warm light makes room
In a cold swoon
Of the other world’s encore. Read the rest of this entry »
Time washes clean the past’s beachhead.
Out to sea goes its gathered forces,
leaving conches echoing the moment of chaos
and clams murmuring to themselves.
Focus on now, feel the past
and future drift into blurred edges.
Only now exists, feel the present
crowd the horizon and tower above the sand.
Every moment in and out.
Every thought gliding away,
till there is nothing but time
to accompany eternity, a tick and a tock.
Time passes as we listen to the clock,
chimed seconds outside our breath,
pin pick moments on the way out
remembered only as moments that were marked.
Till there is nothing in us but passing time,
till we’re just flashes in the cosmos,
till we’re just shadows on the universe’s complexion,
unseeing eyes blinking silently.
Or we can live for our own the future,
be in the imperfect and temporary frenzy of expectation,
live in the ecstatic and near sighted sanctity of hope,
fall asleep with the force of tomorrow pulling us forward.
Jim feared the dawn. He would stay up all night, walking through the streets, feeling the cool air touch him like a glove fitting a damp hand and hold him in a soft embrace. He came to the night and it covered him like a silent lover.
When the light hit, the grass in the park would be covered with ants and children chasing balls, birds hopping from branch to branch, words jarring the air into a quiver while tongues ran through the dance of Shiva. The world was on fire and he would have the blackout curtains drawn watching the clock’s hands move, ticking one moment to the next like quarks popping. Finally he would open his eyes and see the moonlight like a siren beckoning him to the empty streets.
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