It's Not About BEING RIGHT

          each being ,  with its own internal rhythm  

bearing a beat upon and through which 

the body paces its singular communion.

complicit with your slow, secret signature,

as if 

your life were a pencil and 

for this time here you are ever signing

your point in space

your motion's legacy. 

flaking rust and cartilage

 sheered away.

rejuvenated red dust upon which I hook

a finger, a heel to gain purchase 

- body language - somewhere,

an angle for leverage to pry the shadows free,

then, gather them,

as i would gather, to let

fall

again,

this time from

nothing solid. towards their own whim. 

i watch them spread for the pleasure of watching,

*

In honor  To honor  

... the immeasurable

moment,  set to set free 

the future.  the unhobbled wing. 

- looking into you

at my self there. already

knowing. night sweats, precipitant phantoms on seat edges

 waiting to see how it plays out. each page of the story overgrown.

so heavy,

a page turner, but

the page rips as i lift its corner.

rest a hand on the pile of scrambled letters - 

edges, angles, points but (thought forgotten,) soft as clay. 

fisted into a ball, slapped on the potter's wheel.

 a simple form spun,  deep as depth, a bowl the perfect shape for

a particular silence, 

-a species of hush - 

 

cattle breath in February, old spongy wooden shed filled with 

nameless, sleepy tools and the smell of oil.  the grace of unsaid good byes

in a weary heart, again nothing left to say. 

the space between lifted foot 

and soil...  always

walking away without preamble or profundity.

everything i touch leaves its fingerprint in mine.  that is 

how i know

 ...this is me           

Abandoned Shop Beside A Beauty Parlor

                 estranged

estranged, entangled wrens and

 tan gulls and 

language trapped in

bell towers, underground tunnels, and above my tongue banging 

against my mouth's dark dome. 

what is this false sky affixed to high beams?

what is this barrier between

 this bare naked soul and anyone listening?

homeless pigeons weakening, perhaps there never was a "why"

for time between the double paned

storm window, jagged entrance gained,

wings wildly wide

then hardened,

frozen in bare baked flight before so many

passers by, is anyone seeing?

i see

and i want

 want to tell them about ...

but i can't tell them

about ...

because i can't find the way out either. 

Not Quite Haiku -

 How will I summit and merge with this music? 

unlyric'd - the finest unscripted essence of my

self, in it. One simple meaning shared without a word.  Bony-hearted and lucid,

so many small breezes calling to my skin.  So many leagues below my symptoms of sadness

an ether-laced courage,  lithe and

 graced.  heroic - it grows quiet, yet again,

to let them, as they won't be stopped

because they can't,

 and they can't

because they won't -   still

even amidst this "amidst", it rests 

its sweet head on my breast

 and listens,

 and matches, 

breath to breath.