have you tried to grab
to hold
to
prop yourself
on
distance?
distance,
the
but not the–
could
distance be
a
matter of the mind
a
tool by which to measure
a
gift of patience–
is distance
merely vacancy in want of fill?
or is distance
fill in want of vacancy?
i never thought
i would know
where these words would take me,
where they would go, but
now i see it’s
not about who i am
not about who i want to be
but about being
a man, being
who i ought to be–
i chased
these thoughts and
found they fall infront of you,
at your feet, they’ve stopped,
humbled, broken, pieced together with
a sense of urgency and you kneel for them,
holding a corner up and
feeling the coarse fabric fail to crumble,
the weight too much, a
thousand pixels tear to ride in air, in
breath you breathe– they tremble, falter,
shatter to be brought back to reality
on the stone-bare floor,
so
cold ‘cept for your eyes, marching
in stance of soldier, piecing together with
a thoughtful imagination all that could have
been said but laid down instead, and you
lay your hand, lay the corner down to
pool of paper, propped on what
was never given, but offered, before you,
in hope you’d
want to know–
every bit/every particle of
these manuscripts, like
molecules built to perfected rose,
petal:dark in blood-driven pump of heart,
i
walked along your fence today,
noticing the criss-crossed pegs
still rotting, grown over with
the soggy rains, but
in summer’s bright-baking warmth, they’ll
dry ‘fore too long
sit by while i
anatomically attack you with the fluidity of
a chopping block, unflinching to the release
of a thousand-word-a-coward, precision-guided
anonymous deterrents placed routinely in front of me,
so autonomous as the act of breathing, see, i’m
the prodigy overgrown, too tricked by a talent
continuously lying/spraying randomly, these thoughts
weaken me to a mind of an infant, crying, unable to
wipe its own face, so why not spit it somewhere,
someplace else away from me, onto you, a
subordinate offering from the child to the rest of
the class/Damn. I forgot that part.
random as hell, but i was bored and liked anatomical/autonomous/anonymous/continuous
every mornin, every sunrise,
every day a kinda light
comes t’start bringin me outside
these eyes
to find a crisp, new
way to live this life
New grasshopper
“Hey! Get off my back!” This new wingless grasshopper species, Kingdonella, was discovered in China. The male of this group rides the females’ back for days at a time to prevent other males from mating with her. These hoppy insects can withstand extremely low temperatures and communicate by “gnashing” their teeth. Click to enlarge.
Pasted from < http://www.livescience.com/php/multimedia/imagegallery/igviewer.php?imgid=659&gid=43>
And amongst the lumber, a bee struck up a game of tag, of hide-and-go-seek beneath the bench. She tapped him, hurriedly, on the shoulder, fleeing sideways after the abrupt encounter, never allowing her eyes to cross, to turn away from his own before she scooted along and behind the bench. She monitored not the movement of his head, but his eyes, scurrying between the bench’s planks before the pupils could rest upon her expectant, bzzing image. She seemed to be accompanied by quite the period, a determined spider, making its crawl up the thigh of his jeans, closely observering, before avoiding, his advances in its way.
Why am I stuck here,
revolving ’round the thought of you–
that serpent inward/hid?
Why am I convincing myself
to be in love with you
when all I feel is a twinge
a singe
of nerve
— no butterflies,
more of a mashing
a constriction of the
‘testines
as though my heart
my apple
my core
were gravity’d
to pit of me
in search
in pull, inward/guide
 
;&
nbsp; of you..
“I want to.”
“Why would I want to?”
“Should I want to?”
“Have I wanted to?”
“Why have I wanted to?”
“Who would want to?”
“What would I want?”
“How would I want to?”
“What would I want to?”
“Still wanting to?”
“Should I have wanted to?”
“Sure wanted to.”
“Sure want to.”
“Sure, I’d want to.”
“Who made me want to?”
“Why do I want to?”
“Want to.”
“Can’t.”
“Should.”
“Can’t want to.”
“Shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t want to.”
“Would this bowl want me to?”
“Why would this bowl want me to?”
“Why do I?”
“How do I?”
“Is this worth…?”
how quickly the clouds scurry ’bout in low-lie rush of sky,
the froth of nothing bowing forth from sight of Tamer,
Teacher, Moon.. the winking Moon, but bright as bleach’d clouds ‘fore Her,
though giving more to eye than sight.. light, the
traveler’s guide through wood, through mason’s work,
the dry-as-new streets/signs of some outside wave
gone stagnant, stilled for cope of swell.
when thinking
of falling
star
and finding
plane
lit for descent
instead