Usually she was busy laughing or praying for her life, but sometimes, at full stretch, she considered sex.
his sickness is back and forth
breaking over them both
she's checking the windows constantly
and fantasizing about progressive muscle relaxation
to keep her mind off old hauntings.
that creep of never quite finishing what you start.
Sometimes I pray for rain,
or for blindness,
for music as a pump that inflates the soul.
And sometimes i sense the burn of drab addictions
I still remember
when i scribbled that only unfulfilled love is truly romantic,
and believed it.
Sometimes I see the 14 year old in me,
sparkly lips and lavender eyes and a salty adoration for the wilderness,
exploration of illumination,
all kinds
of sweet and sticky bitter hot
spice of modulating seasons,
convergence.
Sometimes I find just as much beauty in the creaks of my weakness
as I do
the extremities of my strength.
(not that strong without these open arms)
I am more at ease with lost dances through
the hot glue of me and you.
So real and yet
my capabilities are
old maps of something new,
something shining I am digging to unveil
cracking, blackened fingernails
scratching and peeling and flaking bit by bit
the skin
of hardened soil.
Oil in countries flowing like spilled plasma,
the pretense of war
when really
that's the way we get by,
no amount of strangulation can destroy the lives of rocks.
Those beloved jagged heights.
The symbolization of hearts,
the splatter of rain on your flushed face,
the ache of a thousand lonely nights
magnified then filtered into the pull of the tides
as the clouds begin to roil and you find
Something in nothing.
Heaven is hell.
Sometimes I have these moments when I begin
craving something more real than my measly skin,
when even touch is a lost art
and my insides just keep aching,
stretching,
reaching to touch the breaking point where sun meets ceaseless space.
Sometimes the endlessness feels too enclosed and tight,
maybe it fits just right
or sometimes I need more room to grow.
But sometimes I drive at night and blur my vision so I lose myself in the spin of lights
and sometimes i just know
this fishbowl is big enough if we all just keep swimming.
nobody
belongs anywhere,
even the
Rocky Mountains
are still
moving
-- George Bowering
and after it was all said and done
under blue moon I saw you.
1 comment:
i'm never very good at complimenting your writing, and so in a sort of vain and lofty attempt to address this wrong, here goes; the words you write hit me in the knees. they break my legs and kneel me before a very tall and powerful you, and i'm terrified in a sense. not only do you blow me away as a person, your writing gets better and better and never stops to look back at where you've been, and i admire that more than you know. you inspire me to be a better writer, to write more, to try at what you've become. you've developed a style, a voice, and wonderful methods of carrying your own song and giving it back. thank you for writing. thank you for writing everything you have and all the things you haven't. you bring out emotions in me which i've forgot. your the arson of my soul. and you're abilities and potential never cease to ground me and make me realize how lucky i am to call you my lover, my friend, and my companion.
thank you.
your miguel
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