| (no subject) |
[Nov. 22nd, 2009|12:19 am] |
there is a reason why this piece of memory is lodged like a broken glass; panelessly
divided among the places i used to go; the mods, the pitiful concrete, overhulse road, kaiser road, and all the farms, all the goats and chickens sleeping under lean-tos, all the apples rotting on the roadside. why do i remember especially the streetlights and the cedars? that one sheer&shorn spruce on the westside hill? it makes no difference
how deep the night was
or how secretly all its rainy robes felt flailing in the wind. or all the times i walked home from the bus, or stared in the bleary blue of the bus, or stepped off into a beautiful mellow feeling
in the daytime,
at the bread peddler,
consciously stalling my spoon
in an onion puddle of soup |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 18th, 2009|12:47 am] |
tonight, finally, i am listening to the books in the full dimension of the dark brain theater.
tonight i am taking breaks from writing my self evaluation to resting with the cat (experiencing what i would envision as a tiny little node in the living web, the archetypically porous, tenacious, connective mesh of living things that runs its million hands through the earth) [ and i run my hand through her orange million trembling flocks of fuzz]
tonight i am afraid of the longtime consequences of things i did when i was under pressure
nights hanging suspended illuminated by the midair memory
tonight i am savoring my thoughts, my own fragile inventions, because they are fragile and because they belong to me
tonight the ticking clock is musical; the writers block ticking to a whimsical prism
rolling in colors salvaged from the luminous scraps of the day
tonight is torn, reborn later (when it's really night). night
evolves, simplifying me, sensing the intimate pressure of solitude.
tonight is trashtalking tomorrow,
because
" this is the only time
anything happens" |
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| 97 |
[Nov. 11th, 2009|01:40 pm] |
"conversation with my friend is particularly
to enjoy the composed sudden body atop which always
quivers the electric Distinct face haughtily vital clinched
in a swoon of synopsis
despite a sadistic modesty his mind is seen frequently
fingering the exact beads of a faultless languor when
invisibly consult with some delicious image the a little
strolling lips and eyes inwardly crisping
for my friend,feeling is the sacred and agonizing
proximity to its desire of a doomed impetuous acute
sentience whose whitehot lips however suddenly
approached may never quite taste the wine which their
nearness evaporates
to think is the slippery contours of a vase inexpressibly
fragile it is for the brain irrevocably frigid to touch a
merest shape which however slenderly by it caressed will
explode and spill the immediate imperceptible content
my friend's being, out of the spontaneous clumsy trivial
acrobatic edgeless gesture of existence,continually
whittles keen careful flowers
(isolating with perpetually meticulous concupiscence the
bright large undeniable disease of Life,himself
occasionally contrives an unreal precise intrinsic fragment
of actuality),
an orchid whose velocity is sculptural" |
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theflyingjepepe's journal
