verbal rummage sail

antiquated rhythms

~ unpublishable verse
released to an audience of back-rhythm
barking bored dogs, lawn mowers
and slamming screen doors.

once released,
there is a heart shift
to wall-less,
generous "this-ness."

gentler and thus, strong
enough to softly
interdigitate with
the sublimity of
dirt, the roots, the bees,
candle wicks, stones,
hunger and
waterlines.


YAANGST -

A bit past the half mark
of a day too long already;
light so, too brite,
old, slow, heavy.

the 12th toll still hangs
low amidst numberless beginnings
for anystory.
a tone strung signature
we assigned to tell time of its character

and what counts for a certain number
of a certain hour.



time persists beyond and without
endorsement through our incredulous
stories of credible certainty.
we tell and tell and
tell until
we then believe and
everything is seen through and
finally perceived within
the particle board frame
of complicated human
arrogance.

inhumane

current event full optimism
- historical current of errors
saturating myopic visions with
repetitious hyperventilation -
the very air we over-breathe,
fuels
exponentially
a narrative
that still cannot see
what it cannot see.

YINSIGHT -

solidarity with uncertainty,
caring to cross the ubiquitous "t"
because misunderstanding so easily
flourishes; every letter I set down hints
most towards all that's left absent
in its presence. this is why
they are important.


YINQUIRY -

my curiosity, shapeless
sanguinity, cooperative with
shadows … we exchange favors,
those shadows and I,
turn by turn, and i
ask them
questions that want
asking:

why do I feel unbelieved?

what if there are words forgotten
by me or my species,
(I very much need right now)
that might offer completion
of one open end moment.
words of value, not for what they signify,
but for their freedom from chain reaction,
for their capacity to sound

satisfying

and whole

while signifying

nothing.

(?)

I sense them
so, so close but
still inaccessible.

I feel them napping on the other side
of a curtain where they won't be woken

… not by me.

I cannot reach them.
will they wake on their own,
a bit groggy,
perhaps in favor from and for the shadows?

will they, if I relax into graced stillness,
humble and fearless?
or by dice, whim, coin toss?
by their own quiet quite deliberate choice?

will they ?

find me
between a bell's tone configured
half past the fortune telling doves
and the precious ashes that
still hold breath
enough to offer compassion for
one illstruck match.

parade

how do I grow?
how do I yield?
how do I serpentine,
unwind and reel through
the numbing ungeant urgency of
the unreal?

the gap between dim rain and sane stillness -
the gap between listening to one's body
and biased interpretation -

what do I feel and
how do I stand to watch marching bands
tissue flower coated floats
plastic smiles that gorge on mediocrity
pretty limp wrists turning in waves
of insincerity while a point in space
below and behind my rib cage
is doubled in on itself and weeping


did the rain turn the dust to mud or did the dust turn the rain
to mud

?

the shower pulled oil up from the asphalt
confetti catching in the spill,
later swept in rush clean up to
street edges and gutters
post downpour -
dyes bled out

dried there
forgotten

one girl was struck by lighetening
a witness noted her barretts started glowing moments before the hit

as if batons and crepe paper could manufacture
happiness

as if the rainstorm itself
wouldn't have been enough

simple enough

the moon's drawn closer to the earth;
her latitudinal lines fall in whimsical whorls ~

the matter of mass:
tap my heart and hear opening
solidity, scars
echoing, and not
just
sawdust compressed into walls.

interrupted narrative,
never resumed ...

love's ingenuity,
more ingenious than loved.