Summer's Over

Smashing Sunday afternoons driving down to the harbor city. Watching the sun set with our minds and go wandering through the darkness in our heads. Quiet laughter echoing through the empty clouds of smoke and artificial light. One more night of summer.

Rip

I lost him, but more importantly, I let him go. I use to pretend to read his mind and guessing at his secrets was a gift I possessed. He called me mystic, he called me goddess, and he made love to me when he took all those other women. Never knowing me, never once attempting to see or feel… we imagined a cosmos for ourselves, one where touch brought separation, action, reaction; incapable of fear or pain, we were naked there. Only star dust, we drifted. I lost him, but more importantly, I let him go.

note

i truly understand the term "blinded by anger" when your imagination takes hold and vision begins to blur and eyes quiver like newborn chicks in january.

That smile of yours

Pull on those boots and make that smile of yours that we all know so well. Leave the stem of a guitar and wrap those fists tight around so you don't let go. They found a whale under her house, which means we're all underwater. It don't matter if it's just bones now, we're all swimming in this giant ocean and the salt water erodes our lungs but we like it that way. Bug bites and bruises and how else can I alliterate summer?

(this is just a simple text cascade)

i know how it ends. the knight unprecedented for his time perishes. the dream, whether folly or fair perishes with him. what need have we of errantry now? but what of the jounrey?

this is a simple text cascade. i watch it and i can taste it and from my fingertips, this world is ambidextrous. down in the gully, down in the gully, down in the gully comes something rising. simic has been discussing with me through text and time the conception o f ethics and a notation for the modern era, as was borges with me just an hour before. merwin just watches on, a lameduck. no offense, merwin. no offense, my brother.

when it comes t othe matters of the heart, eschew. when it comes to the matters of the soul, rebind. when it comes to us and you and we, abbreviate and assume the absurdities related to adverbage.

this is just a simple text cascade.

I amm currently surrounded. There is Simic. There is Borges. Cervantes (Miguel). Websters. Casio. Huidobro. Steve Jobs. Inescapable, necessary.

What about invisiblity?

some mystical power. apprehend perverts and masterminds.

Backyards and Falling Stars

When the vanity is stripped away and all that's left is the open and honest narration of your life will you be pleased with the intimacies you've shared, or will you regret that you didn't tell all that you meant? That you forgot to say that one last thing to that one special girl who really held your heart. You know the one. That one who was perfect in every way, who had the right shade of lipstick for every day of the week, and it was always the same color but a slightly a different heat depending upon the weather and her mood. Or was that just your imagination, your idealized version of her? Was that what you wanted to take away? That lasting impression like a lip-print on a napkin left in jest when you talked and talked all night about music and bad dates and all that nonsense from eighth grade when you thought life was just about backyards and falling stars.

word flow

the secret is that they built atop it the corpse growing reeds and vines and two steps into the labyrinth we've been misplaced - imagine these buildings towering, this city of canyons and ravines and consider the story of the dragons who fought beneath lake waters and echoed the end of the world the way the norse grew a world tree who budded ragnar or a wormwood revelation at the gilded tower foot-- I've heard talk of alchemy and alembics and I wonder if that metaphor is not improper. this transmutation of rough core iron to ruddy gold like blood, liquid like melted sugar, precious like melted sugar; how many ways to challenge a quid pro quo I need this to get back in but I can't keep up with Huidobro yet though he exposes his secrets and his corpse is lush.

we must concern ourselves with the manufacture of new images
so repeatedly, I see a child on a cloud, yellow boots dangling
but it seems to pale against
Huidobro's "bird perched on a rainbow"

Ivy and buds and refuse.