For now, just a flashback - some old writing from years ago.
(originally titled
untitled e)
i could make myself wait quite awhile
at the
r.r. station in westbrook before I felt
a breeze
as gentle as your palms. and it would
be so
uncommon to note the song that you
spoke before
the best transgression I ever forgot
just at the birth
of this period of tranquil
disillusionment beginning
with the shake tremble foot steps I
made and a throat
filled with a rasp very unique to being
awake
this side-effect controls those breezes
that are not
quite as forceful as your delicacy and
far less memorable
than amnesia-induced by your absence.
the forgetting
of all turmoil soaked in vinegar
(something i care to remind)
sometimes i wonder why i even question
your motivation
when i know it is just something you
said last time we were
tangled (without touching) and we
matched pulses in a matter
of speeches prepared by our ancestors
(not that I would try it)
yes, the shuttering yawn of your wits
circumference makes me
idolize. and, yet, yes, you. The one
who is so willing to be alive.
this fountain of my arms reflects this
non-pause of your movement.
so great! to be in love. and vested in
your desire!
jeffrey
the chill that rusts the leafs
and the rain that feeds them
i will be the candle in your bedroom
when you are making love
and just as coy, i will be the wind
that blows it out
just when the clocks have counted down
to seduction
center of this pendulum
which revolves around life
as the sun revolves around seasons
i am the beat of all sambas
a blond haze
that wands and dulls the magic of
entrances and exists
i am the sunrise only because the next
day is assured
so close you will never need to search
found in every shadow you require
something sadder than
death thinks
something sadder than death thinks
fragile mortal jubilance
a souvenir of flesh and ashes, stepped
in
it makes your questions dissolve
alzheimer’s rat like a mind of alka
seltzer
even a great mind catacomb some days
gets enough of a spark to set back
years of
cavepainters master struggles
too many have equated before to
hourglasses
so that the joy of smiling is replaced
by the sorrow of remembering
when the turn of lips was fresh and
involuntary
this is the only time you are really
living
not a void
Flowers falling from
dying hands
it was flowers falling from dying hands
blowing on the interstate like feathers
on a dry summer dust afternoon
it was an inconvenient, radiant,
erotic, unannounced thunderstorm
in early June
which was only appreciated once it was
past
it was a sneeze interruption gap in a
remarkable non-brilliant career
more than a spark, less than a flame
some how a passing passion
it was a shadow in October that
disturbs the trees
in their funeral attire in their
dénouement
only to act as imperial lighting
it was a car full of girls driving
beside mine
on a long vacation for a stretch
trading elusive peek-a-boo back and
forth until I turned
it was your smile in memories and
pictures
and that was the satisfaction imprint
the gentlest kiss of dust in the wind
against my back
Flowers falling from
dying hands (2)
it was flowers falling from dying hands
blowing on the interstate like feathers
on a dry summer dust afternoon
with windchime sunsets
in New Mexico, or
in the suburbs
the untangling of roots
an apple released like leaves would be
later
I couldn’t figure the trigger
that ended this canon
it was too much like
the way you made me wonder
when you wrote “whitewash”
finding and replacing you somewhere
in all the sockets in my mind
it made a light cloth visible
and the shadow over took it
footprints forgotten by waves
words regressed to meaningless sounds
then given the breath of new meaning
somehow lingered away
like the weakening scent of orange
blossoms and you
when driven away from
a peaceful passing laid in a cathedral
this was the calmest death I ever died
Flowers falling from
dying hands (3)
it was flowers falling from dying hands
blowing on the interstate like feathers
on a dry summer dust afternoon
dust with hourglass potential
flowers traveling on the backs of
ideals
less than adventurously
a mellow-dramatic escape
a bridge from which i leaped twice
into different bodies
this was evolution
Darwin smiles
a selection and evaporation
never quite known when you are asleep
just that you've been
the loss of guilt
an expansion of death
too subtle to make this smile
it came from what has been not what is
to be
you looked at Dali's Christopher
Columbus Discovers America
and you blended into one of the crosses
or apostles or jesuses
as you stood away from everyone else
looking
an episode that just blurred
as if i could erase the end of every
sentence
but it was beyond
the relevance of those notions
a madness disease cured
the sand had been washed away
North Branford
the mid-life christ
in sunken, aging cliffs
a sleeping giant out of its prime
it was this tribe that ended
the famous supper of the gatekeeper in
the land
of insanity and unquenchable haze
passions
too often I was left thinking of
the monument in its place
a mediocre career like mine
the faults and cracks can be covered
grass or hardwood, always timed
so the youth are misguided
halloween angels violet potential
and once I was fertilized nearby
before I was a stepchild
not last borne native tongue
then, this was pleasance only
I followed the game where goals
were heard more than seen
to be told I was not the type
with what I’d type
always outside of the familia looking
into windows of old sports cars
even reminded by the angel catcher
the passion passage never passed
in a sordid past
again winter will be welcomed again
with the wind, snow or sun
these brothers and sisters across the
land
captor of spirits
nurtured again the silent wolf of flock
where the scrapes of rocks
that trees can’t cover
don’t make me rain where I can’t
reign
it is a bright field in cliffs’
attendance
reagan-loving yankee
the 80s, to the one I have fooled
they are shingles; we
were sprung from the
House
This is a reason to be born singing
hymns
your house, older than statehoods
we, so happy to say, live in rolling
starfields
one or two technobeatnick potholes
along the way
and a sullen sunburn, disenfranchised
tongue
(without some R’s as you go north)
we are patriots
not Imperialists
we are independents without the in the
pants dance
we are smart enough not to be told we
have to be guilty
we are
the oldest souls, very little
is useable to decipher us from our
homes
from all-American literature
we are the theology, not the executors
we do not believe, support, facilitate
have faith within the
Ideological Imperialism
we will let you breathe your own
freedom
however you cook it
On the forehead of one of many nations
under
God, though He loves the poor we still
Prosper, perhaps, promises to
some devil? til the world spills
(And on that day we will cry,
first of all cries,
we are New Englanders)
