
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Patron
The End of the Moment
Scraps of the heavens,
their nostalgia, an enigma capturing the end.
They breathed & the illness of language, kneeling
in the memory of air howling.
Alphabet stifles your face.
Cut off [by] indulgent mind chaos.
My forefinger tracing tomorrow,
your future slipping headlong into my own,
a relentless atmosphere [of] possibilities
staring at an oblivious, opaque image
[of] your future slipping headlong
into an enigma capturing the place where my mouth
storms wild [in] uninhibited strength wiping away the light
in a sound where my heart
scans a little while the storm happening
like a flood rips through shards
magnifying the end of the moment.
their nostalgia, an enigma capturing the end.
They breathed & the illness of language, kneeling
in the memory of air howling.
Alphabet stifles your face.
Cut off [by] indulgent mind chaos.
My forefinger tracing tomorrow,
your future slipping headlong into my own,
a relentless atmosphere [of] possibilities
staring at an oblivious, opaque image
[of] your future slipping headlong
into an enigma capturing the place where my mouth
storms wild [in] uninhibited strength wiping away the light
in a sound where my heart
scans a little while the storm happening
like a flood rips through shards
magnifying the end of the moment.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
A Language Like Wind
Air howling, waves, impossible voices.
Together there, so frail, the same ideas; all noises, unending.
So crawl into an encounter.
So crawl into my father’s [eyes] staring back
magnifying the same ideas [of] all noises unending.
Tell me a compulsory nothing.
Again my eyelids were caked with a story [of] tracing tomorrow.
I invent here language like my own self's meaning,
scraps of language, my shadow, vaguely there.
So I conclude that you want to be silent.
Perhaps absolutely unknown, but what now?
Wind drowns my bones, hammering my speech far from falsehood,
from [the] thick hallucinating fog.
In my heart I invent here a language like wind.
Together there, so frail, the same ideas; all noises, unending.
So crawl into an encounter.
So crawl into my father’s [eyes] staring back
magnifying the same ideas [of] all noises unending.
Tell me a compulsory nothing.
Again my eyelids were caked with a story [of] tracing tomorrow.
I invent here language like my own self's meaning,
scraps of language, my shadow, vaguely there.
So I conclude that you want to be silent.
Perhaps absolutely unknown, but what now?
Wind drowns my bones, hammering my speech far from falsehood,
from [the] thick hallucinating fog.
In my heart I invent here a language like wind.
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