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Not ready

15 Dec

I’m sorry I sang in an angry tone.

Your eyes low, then rose.

You spoke your prose and ran.

Sister chasing brother in the snow.

 

I’m sorry I see me in you,

Our life’s mistakes ablaze,

Upon advice we make them anyways,

Biting off more than we can chew.

 

I hope you know I want what’s best

For your life and mine tied at the breast.

I hope I know what’s best for you.

I can’t have you in this floor I’ve fallen through.

Same pitfalls and floodgates,

Watch our traps amalgamate.

 

I’m sorry I love you,

The driving force in our parting ways.

That and my striving for improvement craze.

And dissecting how our shadows grew.

Calm hands and a folded mind (pt 2)

12 Dec

And if I looked up and didn’t see some dumb ball,

I’d be sad?

I don’t see why.

A reliance on a state of mind.

A weakness given to the whims

of chemical receptacles

whose preferences consist of settings

where light meets darkness.

                             Contrasting visual stimulus.

An iron fist is the way to go,

though.

A series of synapse manips.

Maximizing delta utils.

Flux. I’m riding dives and dips.

Any other way is futile.

And doing this I snap the cold.

From a rush of love or joy or flirty retorts

to scraping kitchen mold

or itemizing expense reports.

 
No longer waxing on that sickle circle

to provide me with that pale shade.

My time too valuable for trade,

and my heart has never waned invisible.

Idle eyes

19 Nov

Do they, when the sound is thin

Fawn around the chaise in the room?

Words that I couldn’t say,

Oh, I will paint you things.

 
Today, when my lips were thin,

Palmed my life around, golden hue.

Thread pulled, usual way,

Oh, I’m a saint, a king.

 
Do I, in retirement

Shuffle toed ‘tween nick naming the commune

And remember every choice I made?

Is remembering the better way?

 
My age, pulled like a string

Lost body, it’s a sound plucked tune

Meandering across space

Oh, I’m the fish of Kings.

Ocean Flames

19 Nov

Everyone knows the time’s run out.

Braced knees on the downhill jaunt.

Timid toes too scared to want.

I see the golden scales, the feather.

I know I’m heavier.

Braced claws with teething pain.

Careful canine rupture game.

Climbing ivy, driving posts,

Scuttle scrawling through incense smoke.

Kettle’s hot – embrace it anyways.

Sail’s taut – riding ocean flames.

Calm hands and a folded mind. (Pt 1)

19 Nov

When I looked up I knew the moon,

Just as if it asked me to.

This simple orb string spun of glass,

The eye inside a photograph.

 
And in my den I dumbly stood,

Smelling every scent from childhood.

The crisp air from a leaf orange pile,

The nectar floods in apple aisles.

 
I looked again and saw the sun,

A symbol for work to be done.

A time to set aside these thoughts,

I’ll burn the wick, I’ll burn it hot.

 
Return to sill after the day,

To find the clouds clouding the way.

A loon I long the moon to see,

The dream I find’s indifferent to me.

Dive Deep

20 Jul

 
Topography

She said play it again

and did not understand

that that sea was not all that deep

my heart only

it only has so many beats

when it’s you

I dive deep

and this sea’s not mine to leave

I said not this again

the same argument

my mind’s competency isn’t

only a sum of femur rings

because you I know me

and my sea’s well known topographically

I’m in places from when

I was not who I am

the memories I pick at the seams

this part of my life

well it feels just like a dream

when I’m with you we’re rewriting

these spots belong

to you and to me

Probably something about hands again

9 Jan

conckat 058

Michael Homnick – Moment

I’m going to blend, because the rest is blended. Only known because I’d descended, amended and transcended. Soon I’ll have those old man hands. Finger flexation result of a thought’s creation to end destination.
I’m going to blend the thing I lost and the thing I’d condemned. A long struggle come to an end.
But in the end, what will I defend?
What is false and what is true? The things in cinemas, what is staged and what is us? The difference between Lake Quinault and Las Vegas.

Same ideas, same old loops.
What’s the difference between me and you?
In between dragons and rains, remember?
I sewed seeds for complex floodplains.
I’m a new man of a different age.

Image by Pocket Images