Ambient Words – Sketchbook Brewery

I’m on fire.

Biological state of being:
Thistles and cobblestones.

The State of the Union,
Raised in the shadow,
That little bit of tart sweetness.

His name was other names:
Two people I never met before
Up until two weeks ago.

Otherwise, I have nothing else.
A V.I.P. experience.
You got big names,
Something that can provide data,
And if it’s simple
(You probably know all this)
So just think about it.

I don’t think we can go over 10
(Every time you close your eyes).

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m

Young for decades in my time.  Ice-walking, window-staring, blanket-gathering.

Cut for wool across lap and chest.  Watch a world; chatter out a living character.

Tap, murmur.  Draw shades.  Cell closed.

Wear robes.  White hair.  Follow halls, stairs, brandy, flame.  Taxidermies haunt.  Am comfortably old.  Younger all the time. Tired.

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Stomping and Yelling

The simulacrum heart
at estimated life-time
Beats to bits and digits
of a pulsing software suite

Soon we will all be in the ice
Waiting to forget
that we-
were-
                 HERE
Deaf and sober
Twisting idiots
Stomping and Yelling,

We closed our jealous hearts
Tight on crunching glass
We   spit   out   the   shards   all the way home

I sucked ice with my lungs
I tip-toed over the cold white way
tip-toed and whispered
smaller and smaller

Warm arms revived us
And our heart began to beat at the breath of life

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BANG-on mind of a drowsy brain in a rust-lit hole of a saloon
Every face here is pretty enough for the D.M.V.

Stack a plastic up, knock a whisky down,
Wonder why your hair’s grown long
What’s if feel like, all clammy-neck on the pillow?

The original heroes exist outside our time and inside our walls
“They” are dead, but “they” named it after “their”–
The lie we all pass on into stories and pictures.

None of us go to heaven,
But there is an afterlife if you keep your mouth shut
And sell beer to strangers
Looks like I’m immortal
After all

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Stormy

I know little and understand less.

As for you,
I would be wind
Racing across the lake,
Changing light’s play on the surface.
I would be breath
Rolling over the shore,
Brushing worry into smooth, soft beds.

I am a brief storm; you are a brilliant stone.
I am impulse; you are permanence.

This is my romance:
Selfish, self-sacrificing.

You are another tempest.
Ancient and heavy, I am shelter from the whirlwind.

I understand so little and know so much.
We are storm and stone, wind and waves.
A gray day is ours for dancing.

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All along

She doesn’t expect much but she hopes for all
Little red flame burning hot in a velvet cage, vulnerable
Asking eyes and a fist balled-up tight around life

Independent of the many ghosts that pinball bump against her
And shoot off silver with her momentum, she is adventured
She is her own adventure

Beating back forest to discover lost cities, she
is a hammer and a chisel and the artist and the marble in the block
She will never be finished

Suspended and unseen within perfection she is a masterpiece
Her lips tell me why we die for love: I lose my life
With every kiss

When she is here I am aware of my half-form, and know
That I am damned to incompletion,that I
Was born to be half-great without her, and I

Would pour myself into her like rain into the sea
Forgetting the sky
To be a meaningless diffusion in her mysteries

Sometimes I am a chronicler of her long journey into air
And into darkness, walls of marble, glass and fire
Small and hidden in the sunlight, I

Can sleep here close to her heat
Happy to consume her light
As happily consumed

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Michigan

see the vast heaving, pneumoniac breathing

here are the catty shoulders, grinding imperfect self-portraits in glass and stone and secret beds of sand

this is the repulsor of light, rippling out of penetrating sight and stealing away with sucking sound, carrying forward nothing and drawing it back by time, time, time

know that an indifferent imperial train to each vast impermanent outpost owes nothing to the moments, hears and sees them spark and stamp and fail

all is contained in time, through time, for a time

there the stone-carver, glass-etcher, softener of sturdy walls to silken secret beds of sand, passes sentinel millenia in ancient endless poetry

babble, rush and murmur to this moment, living offspring of an ocean, quintuplet sister Michigan

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Untitled

Out on a milky ocean, fuzzy gray with streaks of silver
and here and there a thread of blue or white like sunlight in aged hair
I saw bodies drowning.

Unable to cling to their scraps and wrecks,
descending in slow fading trails into the dark mystery,
(these fuse-tail duds, sparking bright and sizzling to dull and smoky ends before the powder stops, or curls of blue-black ink rising from blown candles)
these smoke people rising downward all around me
and I saw that I was like them:

All these guts of fireflies,
waiting on a tyrant child’s thumb and forefinger
to crush us into moments of bloody wonder
before we fade into smears of irrelevant gore on the asphalt.

But my raft is sturdy, and I cannot see the bottom
And although I am tired of this fog, and
although I shut my eyes against this fog, and although
I think I will always be with this fog,
I can carry a small light.

I am no twisting smoke, winding into unlit fathoms,
am not a gliding seabird on migration to the sun,
but here in the mist I may yet scrape to landing
on the pebbles and rough rocks of some wild shore.

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That Late Night Brain Stomp – –

Around and around and around
Old music and idiot conversation
Like a heartbeat out of rhythm
Forms a buzzing, blurry halo
Rising smoke of nothing
Rays and waves that bounce
From sharp corners and dark walls
And back again ready to be relaunched
Peristaltic contraction of noise – –

Heavy breath of jittery loneliness
Smoke in your eyes, smoke in mine
And a warm electricity
From the higher belly
In a sharp arc up the back
Spreads from the shoulders
Tendrils, wings or bloodstains
Jerked up the neck in a sharp breath
And wreathing the base of
The skull to radiate
In rings from a place
Between the eyes – –

I am sunk deep in an amber
Haze that soon will ramp
Up to an electric blue
And lose its radiation
As the evening trudges forward
And slips backward
Like escaping oxygen
Into the closing creeping
Mindlessness of sleep – –

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And you are–?

Why not meet twice?
Why not three times, or four?

Why catalogue our knowledge, keep each other
in a store that we must draw on every time
we pass, until we burn the substance of
our mystery from thick intrigue to paper
panes of penetrable glass?

I have met you.
Forget all that.  Come meet with me again.

Let all the skittish, probing questions fly
and bounce around the ether, blind, unsure,
and bloomed to blushing courage by encouraging reply
that says: I do not know you yet–but I
would push myself out of my mouth, project
from teeth and tongue and tangle in your air
an exhale between one kiss and one ‘goodbye’

We meet.
And, simply, without knowing why,

Our fingers brush, our blood is heated by
an unfamiliar voice, and we ask: why?
In fitful fantasies, insomniac twists,
we sate our fascination, drinking in
the intertwine of lives and legs and longing
to be met; to melt; intensify that passing
on the street, meet, and re-meet, skin upon skin,
and heart from heart, and mingling steam with steam.

I meet you morning, afternoon, and night.
And every time, I find we can meet twice.

If I know you, how can I redefine
each hand-mapped inch and memorized fragment,
each hair and blush and blemish of a face,
and every tripping meeting, every time?
And find we do not owe but to eachother,
and as do twisted roots, we grow together.

Let us meet.

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Marack Friesach

Ihr Premium-Jungwagen Partner in Österreich.

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