Sometimes serious

You grew. When did your nose sharpen from a stub When did your eyes rust When did your cheeks learn to plump up When did your sobs learn to burst Who are these new voices that speak inside of you Which of these have you adopted And which have adopted you Did you make these decisions when You grew? You knew. Did your tears flow out to lubricate the hands that came to wipe them off before they rolled Or did they roll out before being wiped? You flew by a storm-ful of people When did your wishes learn to not shelter truths Your dreams learned about death Your arms learned to hold while You flew. How did you split yourself into pieces to show these pieces one by one How did you ever learn what you like How did you ever live when no question ever ends. No report from the self is truth.

Ever since you have left I have had to reconstruct the story of a river from fine, fertile alluvium. A river i'd thought wouldn't end, keep providing meaning, energy fertility and flow. Dried up. I'm having to put myself in context of our history. To other people. You are the one golden thread that explains my existence, my experience that core which runs through my being that is all you have now become from a person of breath and flesh. You now live in the history that i am responsible for reconstructing. Brick by brick you are now legend and our life together is only footprints in wet cement permanence in my lonely heart.

The single strongest story of your life can pop out any second There will be a line summarizing hundreds of days describing millions of events One line will wrap a bow around your skin and discard contradictory experience You are here. Leading the social life of a domino A canvas of causality Waiting for a trigger, to be a trigger pass on to another No wonder when more generations pass on their weight on to more generations dominos fall faster and more forcefully than they did. Gravity turns into a force stronger for the tree than it was to the first leaf of fall.

Narrative more than the art of being An opportunity to rewrite unfinished stories limp reality of a wimpering act Courage and love appearing at will allowing you to twist the history of your own experience Out of shape. To help elevate an accelerating heart to passionate compulsion and the scream of endorphins to an irretrievable, contorted tale of A pretentious moth to an imaginary flame. Willfully attracting itself to a known threat Willfully dying of feigned ignorance And a deep seated desire of finding, in the narrative - Meaning.

Watch them sticking together poster in hand knife in heart Laugh at them moving together in the last frontier of a democracy The city square The extraordinary marketplace the emblem of a freedom yet not stolen The only place where the town can gather and see other human beings Buy. The park, the lawn Where talk need not be surveyed And collective demonstration can still be deemed meaningful. Where marathoners run and cancer activists walk prostitutes stand at night old women talk Poets stare at the glamorous magnification of chaos that is the city. Beggars die everyday Drunkards lie Revolters die occasionally in a theatrical way In death is the point they make for the living. The only response you can have is to hold hands and walk No ear is waiting No complaint is read All your complaints are uni dimensional Unaddressed, unanswered, glorified. Don't forget to take the whole kit: Sheets, markers, hatred Canes, candles and matches Well chos

To think about what sort of a gap is there in her clothes that exists not from poverty but from pretense What shape will be shown How much undulation of flesh How are the lines on cotton shaping the grain of her skin, the tones of her dulcet character. To cover up each time with clothes is to think each time What to leave bare How much variegated skin From where How do clothes hanging on a line remind of the bodies that inhabit them So that to see through the skin of human flesh would be to peel off the the essence of a person. To think that clothes and accessories constitute a woman more than the blood and the hate just beneath her skin. Because we can afford to have her dance on our laps And have us touch her unhidden, vulnerable body. But it would be too much to have her strip her skin Until all that's left is her mind.

It's still fresh - the dew sitting on grass blackened in the fire Tiny droplets of love ricochetting off abrasive desire. There is still a stretch of moist green in vast lakes of chemical mud Escapades of the mind absolved by the gravity of blood. There are lilies among plastic nails Ashes strewn on forest trails But there is resistance to storm in the strength of these sails.

There, from your scrawny little self fly your conflicts, controlling the desire of ever being understood. If ever word was enough for empathy, we would never need to kiss hands or look into eyes. If belief was enough for security, never would we need to ask and declare our love. There is your body, bottling up your sensation of space and your running away from time making your fingers thunder and words fumble. The fluid blueness of your soul escaping this chalky body that has become little from trembling like a leaf. All the time. If you ever were to be understood. How would it be. How would it be to know that you feel with a stranger. When would you be certain of knowledge of knowledge, ad infinitum.

Even before a thought leaves my mind with its open arms out to grab your mind and in it, settle          Carrying little of itself          but most of me. I am supposed to use words I am supposed to touch Sing, sometimes.          That is all that i can do to close          Our experiential distance You will recognize from how i speak the words i say the way my lips quiver and eyes close          what i mean. I want you to be my experience Feel my pulse as i feel my pulse As a cadential gesture of unison. But between us there is this huge valley full of words That were spoken, that were almost spoken That are yet to be spoken, That are implicitly spoken That are translated Between your experience and mine My very act of love is a translation.

I hear cries from deserted streets Agonized and mobilized moanings of idea against idea This organized violence supposedly is the representation of our times. But the antidote is in the poison. Sutures are used here before wounds are allowed to bleed. We become nonplussed travelers without opinions in our own land Not to embrace others but to tolerate them Alienate, exonerate them Change does not exist in crying on a street Where everyone is crying about different things.