Has it been so long?
It is hard to believe. But, it has.
Autumn begins to crumble underfoot already. Where has the time gone?
I'm not even entirely certain I am back, whatever that entails. I'm not entirely sure that this fits, really.
Let sleeping dogs lie
At least that is what the fibers in my chest hum, struck chords reverberating until I shudder. I feel I've listened to such melodies for far too long. My voice cracks and peels in such desolation.
So, here I am.
Outside the foliage shimmers underneath the sun, aquarium dream shadows dancing across the curtains. A truck rumbles by, its girth bemoaning movement with a lurch of gears - always the mechanical chatter of automobiles these days. Here.
I began reading Snake-Back Solos by Quincy Troupe today - "Ash Doors and Juju Guitars" . The words were filled with deep roots and the smell of charred wood; they conjure and dance.
I purchased the book from a store that smelled of dust, wood varnish, and age. "Pat", to whom the autographed copy is addressed, left it behind for reasons unknown to find its place on my bookshelf. It lay dormant between Tony Sanders and Natasha Trethewey in a half-baked alphabetizing attempt that grew too tedious for completion.
Until now.
It seems somehow fitting to be resurrected on a day such as this.
On a day when the world seems to be stirring.
Friday, September 4, 2009
These sounds belong to antiquity
To the tin daguerrotypes stored away in forgotten drawers,
aged tea-stained lace,
the memories in glass jam jars collecting dust;
to the unsent love letters,
chilly sunsets with autumn in the air.
Handle with care.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
I want to tell you a story. But I'm afraid it will sound desperate (it is). Afraid you will know that I have told this story via text, email, face-to-face conversation, postcard, and status updates to everyone before (I have). Afraid that the words will lack luster, fall permanently on their face, will laugh at inappropriate times (they will).
I read esoteric poems about Mondrian. I listen to bands with names longer than this sentence. I smile crookedly. I dream of stolen bicycles and lazy bureaucracies. I search it out knowing it will only hurt me. I log on to a personal site only to be disappointed that hungboi is horny and knows nothing about Richard Brautigan or cultural relativism. I stare at edgy art. I conjure flotsam like a shaman and encourage it to mingle.
And still, still it is not enough. It barely skims the surface. It apologizes for not being enough, even while it packs its bags and heads for the door. It is an empty apology.
The funny thing is, this is not a sad story. In fact, it's not much of a story at all. It's a wish-list. I will plant this someday and watch it sprout and blossom. I will marvel at its unexpected beauty. I will give it a name, a history. It will grow up and live in a townhouse that shares a common wall with an angry old man. His name may be Bob or James or Dean. The name, his face, will not matter.
You will call it at 2 a.m., drunk, and all you will get is voicemail.
This is just the way of it. And you will be compelled to understand.
I cannot escape your shadowThe dulcet melody that rocks me to your shore
You.
Unraveling my mystery
until it is so much less than what once was.
Moon River
and the quiet desperation
of human connection.
Do you believe in ghosts?
So many love songs are drawn
to that which lacks.
Monday, June 22, 2009
How I have missed this space.
Here, where I create a new language full of wind and flying words.
I ache for its downy comfort once more; the gentle embrace of retreat in sight and sound.
The past already flocks at the door, vying for attention. To start there would be misleading.
Already the clothes it wears has become ragged, moth-eaten, torn asunder.
No, one must begin anew. At the rising of the day, the subtle smell of possibility hanging in the blooms.
Yes, that shall do nicely.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
is it provocative for a man to talk of having a womb?
mine is barren.
hollow husk
tarp bird; flap-less wings.
is it peculiar for a woman to talk of having seed?
the demilitarization of language.
pollen stained fingertips;
remnants of honey upon Autumn's lips.
these days my head is filled with the turnabouts of postmodern American poetry.
the idea no longer becomes the idea but is a conduit becoming "the idea"...
abstraction:fabrication
fabrication:creation
decoration
elevation
(do you see the pattern?)
Friday, March 13, 2009
A flickering light bulb inside a small closet, a fanatic's prophecy, a plate shattering on linoleum, a rusted Ferris wheel creaking in Autumn breezes... these are all my deflated words seem to offer. Limp and impotent they hang on the line to dry, feasting on whatever sun is foolhardy enough to cross their path.
Oh such fortunes I have dropped down these wells. Clang, clang, clang. Straight to the bottom they go.
I faithfully recorded the colliding of distant stars and divined my future in the after-glow.
Still, nothing.
The needle scratches on the vinyl and I think I hear the distraction. I phone a friend and name it - giving it a history, legs, and a winsome smile. It crackles like crinoline and static.
Dusk flees in the wake of such chaos.
I must shriek.
