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(no subject)
on the morning of 6/17
5 min
silhouette reflected in the glass
i am the shape of monsters
in the tingling mist
niagra falls further and further
with each salty breath
the white noise of static
silhouette painted onto the wall
i am the shape of the lonely sailor
my couch a lifeboat
bathing in the blue haze of television light
we rock from channel to channel
to the ringing of buoy markers
cold metal in my hands
i wade through sw
10 min
dentist
hark! lover
my head is full of novacaine
dead weight on my shoulders
i cut you from the tether
i am free to climb higher
fingers raw from rock-face
the face of presidents
coarse green paper tubes of menthol
katsu! i have found you
in the shape of blue
streaks across the horizon
drifting in the jetstream
another storm to awaken my sense of hearing
full load over pot-holes
they taste like skunk
roasting on a campfire
smoke signalling my way to freedom
the heat is too much to bear
we are too close to the sun
beyond the bounds of weightlessness
she draws me in close for one last kiss
a moment we forget to remember
a memory we forget to cherish
i feel big in your arms
i am big like a firetruck
sirens blazing over asphalt
pedal to the metal
the lead of my foot welded to the floor
i am a tree swaying in the winds
change is in the wind in my face
i hear the howling of air
the stratosphere is cleared
on to the next room
90 seconds
screwdriver
i am drowning another orange
in bitterness the color of air
breezy alcove
there is an x to mark the spot
under the shade of palm trees
6/17 after work
5 minutes
music
she sways to her own rhythm
her hips rock into mine
she is the tune i always forget
in the blur of rush hour traffic
my insides burn with rage
we cannot outrun master sun
his gait is long and imposing
his will relentless
a glimmer in his eyes
sheltered by the mountains
my shadow creeping up the wall
it sings of death and uncertainty
the sound of life
without light
10 minutes
canvas
empty canvas
we are one and all
free like a dove
you are the vessel
assailing my senses
you are full of love and life
of one who is finding themself
you are the murky pond of self-discovery
i am the guilt and shame
of children smoking
chalk lined under razor blades
i am the path
trampled by deer
headed for the valley
terror in the echo of rifle
an empty desert full of nothing
dust and wind
parched throats and bumpy roads
the sound of voices in the telephone
you are the movement of wind through my hair
the taste of fruit from the vine
my face is sticky with your insides
you are the lover on the lane
i am a deluge of delusion
a tidal wave of furniture and driftwood
stranded on the roof
too weak to swim any further
i am
90 seconds
practice
precision crafted
the clockwork of artisanship
hands ticking in sync
they move deftly
like making sushi
*****
90 seconds is hard time to work in! i am certainly no ninety second poet. but i think there is a little progress. one day soon i will have to read through what i am doing. i should look at how it is coming along. and make some kind of judgment on how well i am sticking to sense-bound writing. it is not easy! sense-bound writing is definitely something i am lacking in.
most of my journaling is in-ward oriented. which involves almost no sense-bound language at all.
so. patience. that last sentence ('bout journalin') just destroyed me...
5 min
silhouette reflected in the glass
i am the shape of monsters
in the tingling mist
niagra falls further and further
with each salty breath
the white noise of static
silhouette painted onto the wall
i am the shape of the lonely sailor
my couch a lifeboat
bathing in the blue haze of television light
we rock from channel to channel
to the ringing of buoy markers
cold metal in my hands
i wade through sw
10 min
dentist
hark! lover
my head is full of novacaine
dead weight on my shoulders
i cut you from the tether
i am free to climb higher
fingers raw from rock-face
the face of presidents
coarse green paper tubes of menthol
katsu! i have found you
in the shape of blue
streaks across the horizon
drifting in the jetstream
another storm to awaken my sense of hearing
full load over pot-holes
they taste like skunk
roasting on a campfire
smoke signalling my way to freedom
the heat is too much to bear
we are too close to the sun
beyond the bounds of weightlessness
she draws me in close for one last kiss
a moment we forget to remember
a memory we forget to cherish
i feel big in your arms
i am big like a firetruck
sirens blazing over asphalt
pedal to the metal
the lead of my foot welded to the floor
i am a tree swaying in the winds
change is in the wind in my face
i hear the howling of air
the stratosphere is cleared
on to the next room
90 seconds
screwdriver
i am drowning another orange
in bitterness the color of air
breezy alcove
there is an x to mark the spot
under the shade of palm trees
6/17 after work
5 minutes
music
she sways to her own rhythm
her hips rock into mine
she is the tune i always forget
in the blur of rush hour traffic
my insides burn with rage
we cannot outrun master sun
his gait is long and imposing
his will relentless
a glimmer in his eyes
sheltered by the mountains
my shadow creeping up the wall
it sings of death and uncertainty
the sound of life
without light
10 minutes
canvas
empty canvas
we are one and all
free like a dove
you are the vessel
assailing my senses
you are full of love and life
of one who is finding themself
you are the murky pond of self-discovery
i am the guilt and shame
of children smoking
chalk lined under razor blades
i am the path
trampled by deer
headed for the valley
terror in the echo of rifle
an empty desert full of nothing
dust and wind
parched throats and bumpy roads
the sound of voices in the telephone
you are the movement of wind through my hair
the taste of fruit from the vine
my face is sticky with your insides
you are the lover on the lane
i am a deluge of delusion
a tidal wave of furniture and driftwood
stranded on the roof
too weak to swim any further
i am
90 seconds
practice
precision crafted
the clockwork of artisanship
hands ticking in sync
they move deftly
like making sushi
*****
90 seconds is hard time to work in! i am certainly no ninety second poet. but i think there is a little progress. one day soon i will have to read through what i am doing. i should look at how it is coming along. and make some kind of judgment on how well i am sticking to sense-bound writing. it is not easy! sense-bound writing is definitely something i am lacking in.
most of my journaling is in-ward oriented. which involves almost no sense-bound language at all.
so. patience. that last sentence ('bout journalin') just destroyed me...