Archive | October, 2012

The Fretted Terrain

25 Oct

I must soon quit the scene – American Analog Set

I recall our foundation. Of course there was red. I painted them in long strokes, uplifted by tectonic knife quakes, striped, a solid evidence of early onset B layer formation. In the middle of a vast body of watercolor. There were people on those and now I see them only in my dreams. Or I in theirs. Dancing.

There were two.

I. Imagine Monument Valley. Now forty times taller. Forrest Gump is a speck. A bit of dust in your eye.

II. The Fretted Terrain. Think of what the mariners saw. Think vikings. It’s like that. Red, falling, crumble. The creator resembling that of a drunk architect, or a spider on LSD. Rickety.

A return returns a retinal shock to find the tall stack, the I. toppled and knocked, or moved or all. The water’s gone. Now bone dry, silt deposits, slightly darker, coffee rind topography. All that remains is the crooked tower known as Carroke Point.

image: munir

Horizons Below The Earth and Not Above

12 Oct

Air – Biological

O'   underneath the steady growing backlit sawtooth leaves,

A    single history hidden beneath. Curators of the heart, 
     unpack the spark. Set it free. This one's his to solve.
     Planting puzzles(from something like the pit of an olive)

Be   strong. Be strong for me in the rain. Don't rust, tin man.
     He did. He was ferrous enough for the both of us.
     The anger. Broke his mind. Splint his old ways but hope
     they never return.

See  the sum of the parts. The perfect upbringing. Rustic.

image: keighty

I keep them in pockets

8 Oct

Keeping time by counting pauses in our speech.

Clockwork.

Keep cool cat.

Keep catatonic.

No longer polyphonic.

Semblance of history.

Repeat.

CTL-Z

Repeat.

A mnemonic

coulda come in handy.

Yesterday.

A of a

of a

Now let me put my hands away.

I’m climbing into the corpse of a whale

3 Oct

Lisa Hannigan – Nowhere to Go

She spoke to me of hands,

that afternoon.

And I dipped mine in sands as

we all knew.

She showed me delicacies, in depth

topography.

Perhaps, it was lost on me.

I said,

“I think mine forgot all of these

intricacies,

or they were burned off in my

infancy.”

“Look” she spoke, coaxing smoke to

speak “It wasn’t me.”

“They’re there.” pulling my hands from

sea bones.

Telescope eyes focus, begin and I

atone.

I sky scanned and saw sails that

drew me in.

Wind that need these thin threads,

that bleed.

Knead thoughts, by now she had

the read.

Impede. She cannot know about

The Seed.

image: Unidentified photographer