Tag Archives: thoughts

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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Coffee Notes 3

It’s too hot to write. I wish the sun would make up its damn mind.

The fears we drown away. The razor edge of reality we dull, dull, dull with friendly sweet liquor, not here to serve us but to be served. We tumble haphazardly over a day and a night; the drink sleeps in curled around the brain lazy and catlike and choking. We are parched and baked, the salt flats from the seafloor forest of humanity.

the corner of a diary page peeking from a blue cover ajar: hints of a life i cannot know

Watching an artist sketch passers-by in a ratty notebook: like sharing a secret with a stranger

Watching a poor artist, starved for technique (or maybe talent) sketch strangers from a cafe patio, with his empty cup of coffee and boyish striped tee. Is it for personal growth or some perceived sense of artistic mystique that he persists in these grotesques?

you come in from the cold and gradually unwrap and unwind and unbutton and slip off your shoes and coats and scarves and gloves and hats and reveal yourself smaller than you looked in all those layers all that armor against the frosty chill of a clean march morning and you order a hand made bagel it tastes like fresh water and sticky sour dough and the coffee is warm in a white ceramic mug and you notice there is a cloud on the window holding a little fog of vapor from your heat and blood creeps back in hot and stinging to your ears and nose and lips and its only just mid morning and there is so much time left but so little left to go–

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Further Notes Over Coffee

unzip my spine
make me pay attention
to the delicate brief dances of shadow
soft as cotton and sharp as life
masterwork of dull clouds
spinning sunlight as an afterthought
through lattices of black iron

held hostage to myself and my habits, i crack and lie and battle against this soft false true version of me, rolling out half-lidded and blunt-minded to stumble through a day stretched across a week stretched across a month stretched across a year across a year across a year it goes on

brief flashes and long evenings of clarity punctuate a drifting haze, dancing sparks in smoke rising from ebbing embers of a fire-eaten stick tumbling deafeningly into ash that was a tree

does the soot remember the light on its leaves? creating energy and not being burned by it

This pen, the way it scratches ink onto the page, sometimes in great dark wasteful pools obscuring the definition of an O, elsewhere in the dry desperate drag of an S, imperfect transfer of the random trembles in the tiny, memorized convulsions of my hand on this elegant tool–its sputtering flow amuses me, leaves streaks and stains where these pages press together, these records non committed to secrecy for the sake of

ha look at the way my thumb has already smeared the thoughts

i wonder what a woman so close to my left has dancing and crashing and careening off the corners and bumpers of her skull

unraveling from a hunch i straighten and stretch

unzip my spine

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