Wednesday, November 23, 2011

this november thanksgiving

slowly. it goes.

shame. joys. tears. sweat. and laughs. for you, diamond wings.

to god, and rust. and the canopy of fate. here is my prayer. my prayer of prayers. for strength, and shame. and the prickle of black. i give you thanks. this november thanksgiving. the whitewash and chalk stains are asleep on my walls.

to fingers of blood and allegiance of wombs, i give you thanks. wires emblazoned with the satin of scripts. your palm. where is your palm?

to vagaries of past. teach me your tunes. the failure has failed. and i am dry. but i give you thanks. this pastiche of fates sing serenades to the moon.

holding my hand. and folding my soul. the seams intact. there is a dizziness in the tunnel. the passage. the change. the garden of shadows. where we ran. hands tilted to the sky. sketching. like artists by the lake. shades of the raining bow, smeared across a tracing paper. wrapped around my fist. and tea stains from nine billion miles. sing soprano tonight. so beautiful, my love. i give you thanks. this november thanksgiving.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

heart in a box

what is any more beautiful than a heart in a box? think about that. beating and pumping. in a box.

sit. and dream. what mountains we are yet to climb. what rivers we are yet to sail. what clouds we are yet to touch. the instrumental man. so beautiful in its form. so timid and weak. and a confused paradox. this man within. the inner self. in the world around, slipping away from the allegory of dreams. slipping away each second. like a heart in a box. stuck at the bottom of a dangerous cave. feel the time is running out. look around. shaking heads, violently from side to side. the string of stars on the night sky, like christmas lights. are out of filament. the thread is torn. slipping away. and you breathe heavily. your heart screaming. in side your body. and tears pouring out of your skin. this cloak of shame, and confusion, and harrowing servitude. to life and the beating heart. it churns the life out of my bones.

where do i even start? like a heart in a box.


Thursday, November 3, 2011

dots


often times. re-visit the floods. and watch from the skies a puppetry of souls. begging to please. over and over again. like whores with mandolins. poor. and wretched. and dry. weeping. like magnolia. what is with the magnolia fields on the mountain tops that screams the tune of church-bells?

pause for a minute. and hear the sound of silence. percolating. slowly. gently. through the skin. the veins rush with the vibration of cones. tickles the soul. gentle nightfall with the ornaments. there is a sound of sunset. the color. oh skin of trills, your scarlet scarf is gray with bleach and gravy from the feast. spots, like polka dots, is your fashion of dreams. your scarlet retracts. colors ablaze. on the pastel. this bleach of love and the feast of gore. so circuitous in its meander. the crimson quill is afloat by the sea. bless the fisherman who puts to rest. the carnal mockery of conch-shells. the quill shall rest. frozen from grips and dainty fingers. bleached and preserved for posterity.

the gold on my skin. cold and shy. asleep on my bone. painted with leaves of pearls and silk. and deities and gods. those gods of the temple. where we sacrificed our breath. and gave them to you. spinning on yarns. the silk and spool. of tragedy and rhyme. churning through the air. of dreams. one day. when neruda spake. in the wave-strike over unquiet stones.

the days are gone. the nights are fresh. nibble the black. this black is god. the god of gods smile across the shelf of tomes. in the stacks, where i left my soul.