Tag Archives: life

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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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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Jerry’s story

Jerry moves like a boulder in the wind.

Humped over in a brown leather shell like a bomber,
he takes the gusts to his left cheek.

His whole
big
body
bowls around something protected
(in the shelter of his lap)
while his eyes fire at squirrely random for thieves and p r e d a t o r s!

Jerry’s jaw is a shelf of consternation JUTTING from a punched flour face.

His eyes fix on a limping man he knows.
They share a wave. Stiff and incomplete. Starting halfway. Cut off at the high note. Truncated gesture of shy, ungestated acquaintance.

Jerry is: rounded back of the great ape. Shoulders, pinched in by weary chub, sloping not ungracefully up a tire tread neck to downy pocket-lint cue ball head.

He has the sculpted-bust profile of a rubber nipple.

All around Jerry, empty cafe chairs face together toward a lonely direction. Sideways, they take the gusts to their left cheek. It is an empty audience where only Jerry sits, uninterested watcher of a wintering tree.

The tree has selected an elegant sylvan gold. Gold Leaf!
None of the harsh but brilliant flames of the furious oaks by the lake.
It will drop its clothing
willingly, repeatedly, deliberately, with the timing of a striptease, letting
each
leaf
dance,
a chorus becoming a troupe becoming isolated pairs and clusters of clinging lovers in the final gentle orgy of a life-year, until slip-slip
and the bold tree, demure and humbled tree, waits in a bright spot for Jerry to dumbly take it in

Jerry palms his thighs, hefts the entire human machine of himself to a working compromise of height.

Rolling step-by-step away from his front row seat, he takes to the corner of eroded sidewalk. A lurch propels him ponderously across the earth-curve of the street.

There on a distant shore Jerry stands swaying through currents of people coming
standing
stopping
crossing
standing in the middle of the crowds and to the side of parents with small hands folded into theirs,
hurried brown coats with important papers tucked underneath arms and into leather cases,
scarves and hats and sweaters of knitted sheep hair,
choruses and troupes and tiny orgies of a life-year burning their way to other corners.

Jerry stands like a boulder in the wind.

He turns: takes the gusts to his right cheek.

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For What I’m Worth

You might feel full and heavy in the pocket but remember,
You’re a big fat wallet full of Ones
Stripper cash or tip money or the crumbs of a few decent bills,
Not worth the bank trip
Just enough for a half-tank of gas or a Seven-Eleven Snack,
On the way to your shitty job
That you take because your ship just hasn’t sailed in yet,
While the bills keep coming
Energy water phone rent and they can’t even give you garbage for free,
But you recycle every day
Turning cans and bottles into dollars and cents or shoes for third-world orphans,
Or whatever they do with it
The world’s full of curtains and you can’t go looking behind each and every one,
Let the Wizard be a Wizard
Sometimes all it takes is a little faith smoke and mirrors to get you home,
Sometimes you walk for miles
It’s the harder longer colder nights where you gestate the best of your thoughts,
And forget them later
Like all the faces and names of friends you’ve forgotten since you were a kid,
You wonder where they went
You never stay to see what happens when a slow-growing thing blooms and rises,
No time to be too fond
All the little treasures you built up over the years and the littler few you carried with you,
Seashells go back to the Sea
Waves work both ways and every time you crawl up on some new shore the tide pulls you back,
Rubber Band Independence
Stretched between your thumb and finger ready to snap out and sting the world,
Never leaving a mark
You never find a foundation never build yourself something to last never save for the winter
Live Fast and Broke
Always feeling full but you run out fast and it’s none of it worth too much,
Like a big fat wallet full of Ones

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Your Move

There’s a triple-word-score on the board set between us,
And I know the space will just serve to defeat us.
‘Cause you set down your tiles, aglow, full of pride,
Then I throw out a word that beats yours by a landslide!

In Clue you’ve no clue, you demand the revolver,
I take secret passages, ever so clever,
By the time you begin to suspect Colonel Mustard,
I’ve found out Boddy’s killer, cuffed and printed the bastard!

And you loved it to death when you first saw my brains,
But you’d quickly resent just how much I contain.
I’m better than you at the games that you love,
You’re a chute, I’m a ladder, ten spaces above!

And we’re just like a Jenga; our tower’s in ruins,
But it’s you pulled the last brick, so why should I rue it?
Was it when I blew up your last battleship,
Or when finally I captured your carefully-placed bishop?

I’m sorry to say you’re a poor strategist.
It’s evident from your Scattergories list.
I score higher than you in Parker Brothers’ eyes,
So how’d I come away with the consolation prize?

Now alone with a Ouija, I’m searching for messages.
Ghosts tell me you’re happy; I’m left with the vestiges.
In our game of Life, you inexplicably rate:
Though I got all the tiles, you got Millionaire Estates.

(c)2010

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Marack Friesach

Ihr Premium-Jungwagen Partner in Österreich.

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"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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