Monday, July 12, 2004

Since Endlessly 

1>a song or saturation point, as the people step from the fog’s distance into a nearness, almost a touch. we can talk later, without all the drama. something is lost, or loss itself has a heavy toll that bounces against the far hillside. rhythm will tell. the grey air lets us wonder in turpitude, grieving and purchased. there isn’t much that lets us go.

the cold transit lifts off dawn, goes memorable thru years and what we can do. the piecemeal music lingers in hallways and distant homes and gardens. children race ahead. there isn’t a chance in hell, someone laughs. it is a common story. who can remember the exact details anyway? the fire starts, there’s too much crying.

and since this is wafted over leaves and drip cavern, while oceans only know rout or fable, then classes, densities, ideal pace until function, the real reason between us. those new terms, frosted and beguiled and we were young once. we were tales or portions, until at last we understood.

we gravely.

2>maybe I’ll get caught telling you everything. even the priceless fear, the effects daily sending gorse and greying trees, priests and priestesses dancing in wind. maybe the effort contorts reason, spilling vocabulary into the atrium as we squander our diversity. what is the rage that we keep, here in our bunker? the evil president sends word, and we must remember to send it back.

I’m game for talent. the windy riled spoil and spill, in the event of browning meadows, the wet earth covering itself in snow or reflex, so that towns forget. which is to say, drying out for a moment, that the saddened particle theory returns with new mentions in the daily rag. so which paper is truer, when we read thru to the least number? squandering of arrangement into a diction compelled by cents, us the consequents. that governmental trust, buffed to pavilion. in a while there will be a time for rest.

the political action committee, aka fog, distributes our lesser arrivals, and we bend into the wind. the wind closes doors suddenly, and so much for sentences. the work includes details, and a great big map. when the map is full, we move on. this is the political part of falling in love. the country, then, is a playground for when we’ve reached that point. meanwhiles are distractions, tempers of inclusion but we will never. we need speed and corn popping out of the oven.; we need strong concerns for the pasture, lacy diatoms filling our seas with a glittering detail. we need to strike a chord while able, for the sentences will start to buck and break. a shame transcends some matter we spoke of, and it was itty bitty temple shroud gone moose effort, mild condone. in ease swirling, which waddles music cold for tree diction sham, on profile fed Nixonite slope the tame dear mark. as could the sheet of rain, as could the fluff of winter. and then the degree takes hold, all pious and at a peak. that sweat is the going, political and awl.

3>as our dear map wasted away, flat, we said a few parting words. the father who was air was strong and diverse, and the mother who was earth was strong and diverse, and we as children were strong and diverse. set to that marking, we walked. we walked into snow, the children that we are. the snow was risen to the height of cloud and a little beyond. we walked for a day. that day did not remember us but welcomed us nonetheless. that is my father, my mother, I sigh, together with the rest. and the gloaming is no endurance of itself, but the distance between quizzical dots placed quietly on the map. it has taken us this much time, or so much time has taken us. this may resort to rhyme or just the strutting colloquial impulse of the sentence. poetry is too much for me, and I know it. my relevance, a little book, is stored without mass. it is a map of itself, a storied sort of conditioning. we’ve talked about this marvel of intention that catches one and all. now we place firm lines on paper and never think of eradication. a solid joy presses unction to the soft parts of our limits. we can be desperate if we want to. we name love as the condition of light, knowing something simple like that would bowl Einstein over, no disrespect meant towards him. eager suns give clues, and there is even a direction there, there, in the lines.

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