Sometimes on thin stilts, skinlight touching
All points of predetermined whisky-glow
All joints unfolding starship ramp
The nervous decoil of a shy proboscis
Half-sheltered in a petal cup
Sometimes avalanche
Comet screaming in a frozen instance of forever
For forever
And then the strangled shriek
Afterthought run-on’s period of explosion touching down
Here I roll
Shoulder shells at battle
Hopsack belly at rumble
Saddle hips at heft
On to whimsied goals and dead end paths
Distracting the machine for any bee or leaf or cryptid
Cloud, or mysterious moon,
Thin idiot’s adventure, rubbed and bumpered
To harbor or to rocks
Tinker toy or hurricane
Will you keep me to the path?

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The gremlins in my spine are pulling panels

The vertebral shelves
veiled in dried gutcord
easy dens for small and fearsome creatures

The gremlins in my spine are wrenching bolts

A knot of evil rolls in up the back
sticky-watered in half wet rattles

The gremlins in my spine are tearing wires

Sun bleach my bones and tilt my jaw and stare and document each shallow pit and spider canyon all the splinter and decay

I’ll split into a grin

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strings

Winter’s melting into the apartment

In the misty light, my insides warm and brassy
She and I lay in a heartbeat’s hibernation

She exists in telegraph bursts,
The moments between a switched flip and a bulb exploding to life.
From time before time, the question and the echo,
Ribbons and a kindling spark, heat and smoke and everything

The very zipper-teeth of her tumble over everywhen,
A hundred thousand backbone dice cast into the pit
Some lost to history, more stuck between the pages, others now

I’m rattling in the cup of the future, waiting to roll
I’m learning to be less present

I dreamed my mother’s eyes were taffy-stretched
Woven in forever knots through the skeleton beams of our unfinished house
I’m tangling more and more

The frayed ends of me wander, winding, riverlike
Crossing, curling, turning ever away toward her
Vibrating to her pulse–the waves and the warped

Winter is lifting

My breath rolls in like a stranger, and the heart wakes

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How I got Up there

Once by the sunflowers I was afraid to jump.

I had a home in a dusty box
Hammered out in cheap words and wood
On another edge of the world
In dresses, mothballs, needles and blown pipe ash
The brown bag refuge in the pines

Once I flew over the library in the pink cold sunset.

Somewhere there’s sandy clapboards and the shells in the rock
Smoke and mattresses
Delirium and stolen breath
Rolling cartwheels down cobbleways
There’s a drag on your coat tails
And a bishop behind the gate

Once I tread on thin shingles and plastic ghosts.

I had a canvas jacket
I had a brown patch coat
I had a long black number
I was all sandglass and brick

Once I simply opened a door and climbed up.

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Drunk hammered piano
Porch idle picked guitar
And you’re scraping dust
From the cracked old elegant tile
Up on those gummy rubber treads
Them kickers and stompers, yeah
She’s there with her hair fine like sand
Honey brown and deep as old cork
Are you looking old?
Hating every sentence in your head
Ready to give this one up
There’s a kink in the hose
Nothing coming, bone dry
Well
Fuckit.

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Helen’s Scene

Helen came bouncing through the glass doors, overcoated by brilliant frosty air. She was big, gray and nested comfortably in life like an old cat on an overstuffed chair.

In a second of bad news, Helen’s buoyant face with all its oak-bark creases could drop to a taut mask of fear and vulnerability that made her look young and heartbroken.  Most of the time, though, her cheeks and wide mouth and bubble chin lifted high and hugged together in a great warm smile.  Standing before that smile was like standing before a great oven moments before fresh bread came out to cool.

Flighty and breathless, Helen never settled on a table or chair.  In her daily hours spent at the shop she would rise half a dozen times from one perch to flap quickly to a new decided-on roost.  An hour might be spent humming long, tuneless notes watching carefully out of a picture window onto the empty street.  Sudden as the wind, she would change to a conspicuous seat at the large central table, bowed in fierce concentration over old puzzles in old newspapers.  When a friend pushed quietly into the shop, Helen would bowl aside young laptoppers in their private worlds to make room.

As the sun descended over the town on its way to new westward purchases, Helen left as quickly and decisively as she did anything.  In the middle of a puzzle, conversation or observation, she glanced up as if called, excused herself with a hearty throat-clearing, and floated out the door to drift like a dandelion down the windy street.

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there, here

Now, we are grown older.
A discarded pair of glasses, eye, shade or costume, is not ours for the trying-on.
We have come to the park not to chase across the grass, nor to examine worlds and kingdoms at trees’ feet, but for still and silent council with colder, quieter elements: rock, restless water, the sun in its jewels and brocade taking survey of its limitless empire.
Here the seconds widen.
A minute is gulf enough to inhabit oneself, small, complete and simple; to locate this unusual, unremarkable corner of space and enjoy, for sixty seconds, the terrifying brook of murmuring time.
In the random span of our living rope, here we might choose to exist, reserved and serene on a gray and stony shore.
In our age there is no madness, neither pain, but only shores of faces, hands and hair and fingers, whose high watermarks make up our passing time.

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Blind shoots and wooden bones

Blind shoots and wooden bones
through the slow, sandy strata of time
wove through hidden mineral years and split trunks
searching arms to skeletons.

Twig and claw from a distance
the dime portrait of a great neuron
frozen forks of lightning in the blue clouds
soft cotton colors in the early evening.

Gentle and warm behind the bisection, no aid in illumination
the light breathed slow and bright around them.

A tin-can grey train
intermittently
battled with inertia like a great bear, grumpy and afraid
from its long hibernation
rolling, limb by limb, back into the waking world.

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From a bridge

Iron flake and orange
Strength and sunset
Earth in an Easter dress
Tapped at with tree-fingers
Peach-blanched with winter
Roll over my shoulderback
Five or fifty dozen times a day
Face-down to my deep dark bloodlines
Molded to their hills and tracks
Warned away from touch
Huddled here under old fish bones
Invisible to the sky, and in it
Staring at the earth, and through it
Rusty old body under a big new sound
Here with you ’til you forget
My joy to sleep and see so much
And never waking, never say a thing

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Shakin’

Shake me ’til I freeze my bones
I am warm here, shakin’ on my own
Warmly I watch th’ ripples pass
The lull of the water is a magnifyin’ glass

Out of that stillness I’m a dying leaf
There’s no more life in a tree
Than what’s underneath

Here I’m shakin’, it’s divine
Won’t you come to my basement for a bottle o’ wine
Down in th’ dark we’re cozy and warm
Looking over the rooftops for a rollin’ grumblestorm

One of us has got to fly out there
Shake off those wings so I can watch you
Shake in the air

Back on the ground I will fly soft n’ low
Growin’ my patience; growing cold
Put your foot in my hand and we’ll look out o’er the lake
Stretch out your fingers and feel th’ muscles ache

Listen to the lapping it’s got to make your heart break
When all I can do is stand on a stump and shake

The roots share a secret with the damn ol’ docks
See ’em if you can see ’em from the back of a rock
Down in th’ dirt they were connected by time
Thinkin’ of leaves that they lost, climbin’ into the sky

I’ll come and find you and we can keep all our leaves
Between you and me we’ve got two up on the trees

Shake me in your arms and tell me there’s no mistake
Out in the storm or on th’ frozen lake
Here in th’ hold I can make my escape
Outta my bones and into yours I shake

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Death, The Life Story

Tracing a life through stories of death. Sometimes funny, sometimes not.

sevenstarhalo

"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

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Current Affairs and Aesthetics.

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Beautiful photos of hiking and other outdoor adventures.