Posts published in “Year: 2006”

and it snows
as threads
snipped, short,
wasting
to be piled/spread.
as does smile.
as do tears.

The covering yawn of air, full-held to be escaped, to be fading from the voice’d roar, in rush of crowd, of millions, bowl’d to be as risers of the fallen, to be as harvests, loosened [rocked, rounded in the loosened soil], let sit, climbed-over, rolled in upward glance-foot/swift lifting of the core to see the fields, laid strewn/laid, stained in corpses, light held off in festive linings of the shadow-flashes, dots as stars, inversed to held as swarm, wing’ing ‘llipsed as toward goal, in twist of glances, spun, o’er heads, and distance, covering, as does solstice, ‘splosion, Sun, a whistle, pitched too high from ears of skin, though all lies through as lies in, and, cross stones, stuck, though ever-loose, hands reach, to be left at fevered swipe’ings in movements, gestives in their nature, given as clappings for the strain

and you make known your presence, your
chatter ‘long these walls, up to challenge,
though weakened with your language, your
hiding in the breath, on skin, through eyes,
you give to be taken in and, still, you speak,
you wash/click as through the brushings,
strokes, and, known, you ‘llow your sense
to be, a cradle of the mound, fresh-baked
to be a staple, stable, bustling make,
and, through these searchings, strikes,
you begin to break, as though in play,
in laughter, ‘cycled, way, you hover ’bout
to be as hand of teacher’s may, fal’n to
as festive hands may, from clap/from cheer,
though soft, to, unhindered, know, from
still as know from stalled, in as know from far,
yet, still, in stall, you give a know of all

i’m working with these words, and they belong to you,
and, when i stop, you need more, and my reluctance is but waiting
to take over, though, within me, still, i know you need/will have/deserve/will leave without more and more, and, despite, my not having/rotten thoughts, i tery, i give, as though taking from, a d feel you will find me false, though they are your words, and i am not a writer, but a fraid to go beyond the wallings of this head, and i know these tappings are without speed, with swift fingers/tipped/giving lead of me, and i hope you free them to, from thoughts, garbled/jarbled, to strike in means much longer resonating than these

and you pour,
leaking your words
down pipes,
from high, and they
trickle/find a way
to stalk the ground,
as though your prey,
and in push-soft graze
of breeze, your fingers
slip to tip of these,
and throat grows wet, in need
of dry, of speak, of world,
of breath, of thy bleed’

i have nothing but words
and the breath about me
and the slow-caress of a wrap of wind from palms to brow, to nostrils,
reluctant to divert the path to me, when so much needs more
than i let slip by
but this, these, those
grow on and inspire me, as does the Sun, as do her Shadows, The Land,
both l’quid and moving,
so tectonics are inside and show the overlappings well deserved are
but shifts, so needed to allow the revolutions to persist

and the droppings, buckets poured, smell of ringings, washings, more, to these ears, unfollied in their search for you

plip
upon the screen,
the window, bare but dotted, sprayed,
lays, in hurried fashion, another
to be dried by sun,
though its mission, sentence,
rings true

thank you.

she smiled.
he felt her lips widen, stretch,
part as those nostrils flared
for her to breathe.

he sighed/he took her inside,
her breath, and held
to fall the chest
and release to her
his lungs.

she turned her head,
chin toward him, eyes
down to see him,
from her side, and
she showed her tongue/her throat,
open-to-welcome him, and
he smiled.

Porcelain royalty,
Iron-haired maiden,
Sloped to see those
in front/beside/by her tips’o’toes
and all in smile, widing grin

through which happy air follows in

beauty, you,
smile on softest neck
adorned in strands of gold
lay fair from crown, a princess, wears

Katie was always my anti-hero. My protagonist, as I was the antagonist. She would harass me, I her, and all around would know and feel this. She pinched, I choked. She slapped, I held. I love her. She is the reason for so much of my life to be happiness.

Mom was always the anchor. Katie and I sailors, the House a ship, school a land we ferried to and from, and Mom was our anchor. We would come home from school, go our separate ways (Katie off to wherever she wanted, usually a friend’s, while I stayed and talked with Tina, rather often, or went to the computer.), we would wait for Mom, and have dinner, watch TV, and go to sleep. Mom obtained for us a life we would not have seen had she not given to us what she did: Knowledge, foresight, responsibility, morals, all of these were left to stay, boiling on our minds, only to sink in later and to stick to the bottom of our awareness. She knew. Somehow, she knew we would be upstanding citizens. Yes, potheads, artists, designers, writers. She knew. She gave those to us, not through addition, but through augmentation. She saw us acquire as we did, and handed us an open hand with enough insight to allow us to roam, freely, upon the plain.. to fill the land with thought, with buildings, trees, plants, companions. She knew. Gone, now, is who I was: The stubborn child, being hauled away, shouting, “I WILL SUE YOU!” to the daycare personnel; the obnoxious beast, whose only means of fun was harping on others; the anxious, often excitable and, yet, reluctant child, whose temper flared as would a mercury thermometer on an open flame; the shy, the terribly shy. I am still those, yet I am traveled. I am carried, onward, as though a step away and a step toward those, and myself. Mom knows a discussion about her would eventually lead to goings-on in regards to myself. She allows me to be selfish, to be self-centered, self-aware, self-unconscious. She is as an addition now, an augmentation of thought, a conscience whose identity is fully known, recognized, yet understood as being completely free of any bonds of limits placed; she may be emotional, running her eyes as her thoughts, leaking over her hands, or she may be flared, raised, intolerant of those who do not understand as she does, yet she loves them so. She is Mary, Mother, Guidance of Self from Tormented/Anger/Unruly toward Seclusion/Personal/Disciplined in bulldog’s way.. not outright, but fully delved to what need be done/what we need to have done. She deserves more.
And will have so.