Wednesday, December 29, 2010

justwrite 29 december

it's better to go on go out go through yawning into a fresh batch of mornings served up to undeserving souls the breathers of whole days through until the end extended into metaphors and glorious lunches crunched in through the ways of the trays crashing down in school cafeterias the bleary areas doubling as auditoria and gymnasia the crazier the pluralization the greater the fascination for these are the three rings of orient they are of circus so far and no farther all tar and no feather we are weathering the storms and waiting for the return to normalcy so long ago promised so long ago invented as a word first heard from the mouth of a president hesitant only about moving forward but there are certain sounds that'll run you aground no matter your chatter no way to replay to rewind the time to find the blinds and fling them open we're hoping for more chances for sweet romances and storybook adventures but the measures for measure creeping in that petty pace erasing long-gone plot devices pretty and nice with variegated spices well there are just too many variables we are wary and full of optimism and this set of angles creates quite a prism when we turn our heads instead of raindrops we see bows closing to the earth reaching arms around astounding the onlookers the deep cookers the frier and the friar all tuckered out from extricating doubt from the non-believers the tender weavers of other tenses other dimensions where what's good for you is shoveled through a different pore the store where you can buy belonging is all sold out and here i am driving through yet another place i'm not from anymore and if it's a welcome i wore out i would try another route but for now there's no doubt that i haven't got the address to rest on nor any laurels to wear in comparison to plant in enchantment and in the meantime it's all just fine anyway no debts to pay just fade into shade and conjure up some lemonade to smile into from a distance

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

justwrite 28 december

can you imagine untangling tragedy with your bare hands hardly commanding the language the verbs unheard of the absurd calculations the fascination with deviation from the norm the storm of adjectives slivering silver sticks the cinnamon twist and other fine dances prancing through the dining room we swoon at our own reflections we hesitate in our own corrections for we find ourselves divine we twine our fingers in our hair and turn ringlets out of air and into color the pages staged like so many dramas we misplace our commas and speak out of turn we learn to listen and we glisten in artificial moonlight placed on medium settings letting the lookers take in the view and in truth we hold our righteousness to be self-evident we prefer not to be dependent on the transcendent for the real is much more feelable the tendency to create words one of my more absurd habits like a rabbit that can't be real like a seal i cannot steal without sufficient amounts of fish or ink and you can drink in the interpretation you prefer these are the tricks of words these are the sounds we've heard in the evening as our eyes close as our toes are exposed out from pulled up blankets we are tall when we sleep and our heads prefer deep undercover safety when we dream we seek to seem safer and we can turn it off we can drink from the same trough but swallow sweeter sounds we send back to the pound all the raw wild all the running childish tenderness the wings singing and the feet sweetly fleeting we are singing along with these songs that have barely been written we are smitten with hope and we rope in others we recruit new brothers and hopes painting sunrises where once there were frosted-over windows

Monday, December 27, 2010

justwrite 27 december

i can't tell you all the details but without fail i'm flailing a bit here and it's clear the wind is rising it's not surprising to see the snow washed away and the straw plays its role but in a historical sense but is that the right grammatical tense ought the article to have an n or is there some end to that fight for righteous language usage do we move forward or are we forewarned with forceful natures baking up the ingredients an expedient route toward the spices the indies the films we wanted to make on our own time our own dimes we have zine dreams and we have rock scenes playing our vintage tshirts straight aloud to the crowd we have shrouded our worries in mystery and we have turned up the volume the light the brightness the tightness in the muscles related to the struggle but here we have what we want we're given and we taunt ourselvs with imagining tragedies of nonexistent sorts we purport to suffer slightly but it's a dailynightly sort of remedy a catch and release program augmented by tortilla chips we eclipse our own abilities we tend instead toward proclivities to eat to talk to balk at overwhelm turning away if not at the helm yes someone else will someone else fills up anchors blanketing the bottom of the ocean keeping it in place facing the surface but not quite bubbling up that high there's a sky but it's far off and there is some scoffing in the coffee queues listening to you and your useless dreaming scheming upward but keep heading thataway keep in play and weigh the means the committees that seem to scheme all those allocations to some questionable destinations we face our own nations trying to keep them united but our shoes are untied and our eggs are hardfried as dry as we like or hurried into curry just to move the day along we will sing more songs before this episode is over but if these curtains are exploders then they probably won't be opening on another quality act and it's time to perhaps distract the audience with a preponderance of improbable evidence maybe the program will rearrange itself into a more imaginative health a state of affairs comparable with the unbearable rightness of being left of leaving and of heaving the right foot forward into the dark day light bright and right and round we go again it's easy to defend pretending with eyes lending closed shades for closer contemplation and we will keep our fascination held close in our cards hardly daring to eat a peach within reach but dreaming about mangoes

Monday, December 20, 2010

justwrite 19 20 december

well it’s hard to tell and when you look at it this way there’s a fair set of plays and there’s a book full of fouls and you don’t need to be an owl to see which way those breadcrumbs are scattered something the matter and the watch won’t tick there’s a stickpin holding itself in at the seams and we all have dreams some of them are simple and some make dimples in the list by their very insertion making certain that there are words in the way of ideas gives others something to hold on to something to mold shoulders against whether it’s pushing or pulling or fooling around the cobbler’s bench that monkey’s chasing and this time there’s a wrench in his plans just a wench in the stands or a maiden with hands laden with something delicious but who wants nutritious when there’s something else to be had scattered lines and lanes allow traffic to stop toppling to a standstill a landfill and a half crafted to its own design finding reminders tied around wrists and fingers the significance lingers but the feelings turn colors we paint by numbers and we learn by blunders but the rainbows close up for the night turning on a different light and this is another story there are many and they never end the tangents tend to find themselves on windy streets meeting the pavement with new songs singing along to uncertain verses waiting for the chorus for better or for worse is the hardest part ready to depart but not quite sure about that itinerary carrying eggs in a basket and dropping them repeatedly assuming’s too conceitedly incorrect can’t neglect the facts even if relaxing interpretation leads to greater fascination we are the creators or our own truths and we’re used to painting out stories to someone else’s greater glories but when it’s our own thrones we’re seeking the news that’s leaking out leads to doubt and the thought of being nice is left to the mice with the scraps and the traps and the foundation won’t collapse but it could use at least an address a point worth tracing home to where it seems quite worth to roam to and all the syntax doesn’t distract just lacks a bit of flow but if you’re in the know you’ve sown these seeds and you read what you shall find you seek what you wouldn’t mind knowing more about having the score about and there’s no rush there’s no fuss while the cannonballs fly there’s a different-colored sky just around the riverbend the trip won’t end but the falling will continue through any season the sideways reasons collect leaves and trees and forests seeing themselves in lakelike puddles doubling as wishing wells collecting tales to tell and hands to hold while the story’s told in unrhymed time

Saturday, December 18, 2010

justwrite 17 18 december

imagining tragedy's too easy it takes effort to make up something that doesn't implode doesn't unload all sorts of grief on relieved patrons of the arts starting to wonder what all this is about the doubt and the trout swimming in the same stream but no one means what they want to hear and there are fair ways that aren't just for golf we have hopes and coke bottles and the natives and the related wilderness wonder with wild wandering abandon what happened to the plans presented long ago well maybe there was a track but it's been disgraced or misplaced or retraced and anyway it doesn't matter now anyway that's two pigs and a cow away to say the least to mean what i say to pay to play to stay awake and make mistakes long into the afternoon we play tunes and we wander toward next noon crooning and wounding the ears of malevolent hearers oh it's bad oh i'm glad it's over the shoulder wandering away the players and the pianos give all their manna to new authors to handle fashioning fiction into stricter directions teaching lessons and learning corrections the self-found kind the unwinding we do in our sleep keeps us from getting where we thought we ought to go beforehand and afterward and inbetween and the scream the theme the author had in mind the loosely defined as rewindable optimism the schism between harebrained and maimed like ideas that whiz by how high and spy a different view between you and your truths you're used to breaking down clowns and rollercoasters and deconstructing the rushing wind we call laughter but what it is you're after is hard to tell is just as well a failsafe erasing itself calling its health into question and again with the lessons this is where rambling gets you on the road again ready to explode again but more like in a calm way more like in the play along ringing chimes at the end of the line we are rhyming but we don't have to it's an attitude but it's a cando and not a pressedthrough shirt working itself out just a leaning sort of tower of pizza or of hours spent having lent real consideration to the fascination of realization as clear as that seems as sleepy as those dreams come true as blue as you can get out of and back in swimmingly breathing free like in splash like catching a laugh and passing it around

Thursday, December 16, 2010

justwrite 16 december

couldn’t have been more obvious but the floss tossed itself into a barrel and over the falls and the curtain calls went on and on and the song lasted until all the parts were cast like nets into the dance into the sea under the trees and over the river shivering into the winter that keeps reappearing fearing foolishness but acting it anyway playing along while a new song tries itself out shouts a chorus or two and plays with verses rehearsing before the hearse or worse we are pressuring ourselves into better health and imagining vitamins the chewable kind easily defined as sunshine through words nothing has to be heard to be felt and it’s a melting kind of offer being proffered even if it’s sight unseen even if it’s a clean bill of health away settling into the rain and covering with mud the icy kind the rewind button far out of reach and no need in this weedy section of the garden just wandering around and being found at the same time which is just fine at the moment and probably later too in whatever language you want to say it there’s a way to play it and I might as well

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

justwrite 15 december

hungry like the wolf is a song that could be gone from my mind right now and I wouldn’t miss it even if everybody was kung foo fighting you know those cats that’s how they do and there’s a rhapsody in blue that’ll do it to you too but not as easily as those songs with words the ones we’ve heard undisguised like the eye of the tiger it’s the easiest thing to carry around curled in some bit of brain endless refrains of classical gas waiting to be passed or trashed by some newer party cool as ice ice baby under pressure to prove which song is which and which was a hit and which was a rip as in off and the scoffing continues when the next song that lingers is a track like backstreet’s back alright you think I’ve gotta sink outta this pool gotta swim this fool lap until I’m fully strapped for cash of the intellectual sort we’ve resorted to this old man playing one playing knick-knack on his thumb as a kind of paddywhackery a distraction factory building up and away from the fray keeping fingers crossed and radios flossed looking for something different to drive away mama mia but here we go again how can you forget something like that that track cracking itself up like billie jean just a girl who says that Michael Jackson is the one and in such a way she’s undone she’s moonwalking her way through the stars and parking cars at the same time the valet line adds up and the cars wait while she dances on the waves saving good music the true view itself to her own health in a wealth of hidden pockets rocketman’s another but that’s a sort of ohbrother type distraction on the way to elsewhere where you coulda been somebody coulda been a contender and then you remember that isn’t even a song there’s no tune that goes along but suddenly the swell of sound rebounds chasing you up the steps of the Philadelphia museum of art departing this mortal coil and becoming rocky turning into the stature that matches you to that legendary fiction the truth is stranger than the middle name danger than the last name mouse soused with references and heading toward a predicate which reminds me which unwinds me and sets me back down to find the end of the meantime to lean toward the next

justwrite 14 december

there are too many pieces in that pie chart there’s an open heart looking for a surgeon and the surge in prices fits just as nicely with the seasons changing as the rearranging ought to indicate we break our plates but we eat our food and the truth is tastier than the pudding the soup is on the stove and I’m waiting for it to cool but the heat is on so it’ll be a while there’s a longlost trial waiting for a judgment but my hair’s still wet so I can’t get too involved in those outdoor sort of matters just a scattering of dark coats in the streetlight and the road is hardly there just two lines stretching into the ice and leaving the snow matted plodded down trying to toss a whitehaired crown over into a no one’s looking corner but yes this is winter yes this is the color there are no numbers no spaces to fill in but shadows and the darkening eyes in the faces disappearing cheering as the lights go down and the blankets come up we are stuck in our own fascination but luckily we also have imaginations gliding through the noises of small dogs yapping up the evening one last walk for the night one last outing for the tallhatted shortboys running ahead to get the walk moving along and probably a friend along probably someone whose mother doesn’t mind him out after dark parking lots and lots of time on the safe edge of crime waiting for a switch to be turned or maybe it won’t and let’s hope that’s the case let’s let darkness erase itself and replace with health any meaner leanings the steaming of this bowl cajoles relaxation from my soul and the carrots are really good should you be interested in knowing we’re throwing up our hands at the wide range of commands and pressing enter there are too many keys and the brothy breeze will not go unattended this lemon tea too will have mended a raw side I can’t hide over the phone I sound a zone apart from myself but still to my health I am downing citrus and sleeping yes such bliss can be mine when I offer up the time and steal away from editing or planning or internet scanning this is what you do when you lose all the numbers and you realize you don’t need them and who’d you be if you didn’t heed them you’d be asleep quite deep in self-satisfaction

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

justwrite 12 13 december

when the rain turns plain cold there’s an abundance of advice there’s a nice place to stay there’s a way there’s a will to deviate from what’s expected there’s an oft-neglected path but not through yellow woods as the good Robert frost was keen on believing and there’s no way he was deceiving he just had a different view an older truth the newer youth and the norther south all wrapped up in the loving cup of growing riper the market-based economy the kind in the bazaar the change-giving and the sweetness ringing dripping straight from the palate of pumpkins and eggs with a rabbit’s furry leg the only part stretched out without its withouts kept within there are thin strings of mushrooms held from lifted arms waved like a brown waterfall of charms wrinkled with goodness and flavor worth savoring in so many soups in scoops of gravy and savory othersuch the cabbage bigger than my head instead of something reasonable to pass by seems mainly treasonable I couldn’t do it and I brewed up those carrots too the dirtiest ones the beans all white running into cups to a bag to be dragged toward some other dish mashed with the mish and empanadas soup rice and all these mean beans in these scenes I’d prefer more but there’s the door and I’m staying on this side it’s not quite that bad but when’s the last time I had oh so many yespleases there are freezes on the supplies there’s no peanut butter surprise again and again the confusion of a people with the illusion that peanut butter is a silly idea is an unnecessary condiment because what would you use it on where has plain butter gone and who eats nuts anyway we’re just a few sunflower seeds away from a high-yield field of moviemaking magic but nothing tragic it’s healthy and you needn’t be wealthy just spit and chew or however you crack it just track those trails in shells through football matches and worn dirt patches there they are in pockets and sold by seated grannies allday fighting off the birds just a cup of income at a time and not much profit to stop it or to keep it going but still the day’s spent sowing seeds in the eyes planting the idea and watching it grow and these people know they’ll be back for a bag of black snack winking open like eyes and spitting images onto the anyseason earth

Saturday, December 11, 2010

justwrite 10 11 december

having the grace to face another maze we are crazing our teeth upward in search of the sun we are stunning in our confusion we are building houses of illusion and filling kitchens with questionable matches that don't that float high ideas like riverboat coffee cups stuck to the wall and calling on all the kettles to mettle only in their own black business the dizziness of a thousand fish swimming sideways strays through my eyes and tries to hide itself in stability these eyes are blue these thoughts are true and when i write i bite off more than i can manage it's a strategy we see typically in cases such as these as the patients stop being patient and ratchet up the score one points two or four and there's a snore in the aisle to while away your sleepy nights to bite and to cheer with tired ears yes we have the years to fill that resume yes we play with arms wide open hoping for accidental embraces the traces of newer laces untied again we confide again our hopes in small and spindly ropes poking from our feet and reaching toward the road we explode toward anticipation we push and drift from certain frustration we are caged despite those rats we are catching but not contagious it's an outrageous way to see the world it's an obnoxious twist of knot to have gotten wrapped up in neither to sink nor to swim in the tragedy of a so-called marvel carving all those tender smiles from the wooden teeth of history's mysteries are we to believe how can we retreive the facts from the inbox how can we talk through these theories without teary rememberances the memoirs the stores of photographs collapsing under the weight of stationery carrying the words meant to be sent so long ago and on we throw a scarf a hat keep out the draft and trap so many accidental lentils in the soup we're cooking the books we're looking up in the card catalog the cogs and the wheels and the ways we can steal our answers without having to ask the questions the embarassment is part of the lesson and i'm stressing without teaching without learning with just leeching off of air borrowed through a firey throat it's a moat i'd like to drain just to check just to see how the breeze is chopping up the waves and what we can save at the bottom before the castle wrastles one more banner out of the air and shares the trumpets of successful retreat beating oxymorons into glorious relief on the drums of the listeners glistening in the heat of interpretation

Thursday, December 9, 2010

justwrite 9 december

no matter the weather the sharks still snap still collapse those jaws into claws into tender unsuspecting skin the sinking we are thinking of may not be recoverable from the countless nuns and the manymany monks swimming in their trunks of memories are shivery in the summer air their clothes worn out of habit in the habit of being in the habit nothing much to grab it from the view nothing much to offer you a different truth just on the inside even when we can’t hide our thirst for juice we imagine the truth is easier to find is a more accessible kind than the rinds of melons I saw in my dream in between waking times the refrigerator opened and with hope full in my mouth I tasted this fruit with my eyes somehow no surprise to find these round green greetings rolling out and toward into the sense of existence we’ve all tried to resist but now awake I mistake the sentiments I meant to send I tried to pretend but in the end the differences were greater there was now and now there’s later but they all taste the same they all call my name in different accents they all pitch strapping tents ready for the wind to sail to catch a flailing flap a trapped pole holding itself to the earth like so many pegs driven into the right holes though the earth’s whole paradigm is a different sort of shift when you lift your foot to look you find square holes round soles and something soft enough to build with here you fill it with sand with gravel you pretend that you travel but instead you pace around you hallow your ground with your own steps and what’s next is the house that you built and we know this nursery rhyme and suddenly you are jack with a few twitches of a pen you might be jumping over a candlestick or grumbling over a serving dish picking out the vegetables and passing on the meat the neat way up the beanstalk is yours too if you talk to the right cow-buyer and I can’t help but admire all these glorious stories that you might end up in sinking or swimming or sticking in your thumb to pull out a plumb but oh what a good one you are sitting there in the corner mourning over your dependence on rhyme although at the same time being pleased to be freed of the disease of enjambment a scandal sent from modern factions still safe from gaining traction in the fairytale world so don’t worry don’t hurry up that hill just fetch that pail of water or whatever else you oughter ‘cause when the tumbling after starts going on then it’s anybody else’s song to sing and I won’t be held accountable

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

justwrite 8 december

now I am preparing for the rumors to spread for the dread to take hold of the knots and box in the parked car we cannot get far with this attitude the rude dudes behind the counter and the changegrabbers looking for higher amounts are we ready to move forward are we sititng all day at the same window looking after dreams and proclaiming sunset scenes in unseen skies fried like pans full of oil and water splattering fog into the courtyard hardening and slowing down obscuring the view the truth often told but seldom heard is a word too certain to hurt feelings we are revealing the yielding of results the tumult of a somersault is hardly worth reenacting retract those statements save those placements for another sunny day when the map stays unfolded this is a hand that isn’t holded but neither scolded nor this hair upbraided maybe some sighs have faded maybe some angles aren’t trying anymore but that’s the store and that’s what you can buy this is the field and there is the rye the marble the wheat waxing flaxen leaning toward pumpernickel with a hammer and a sickle finishing off one history and reaching for the next while the text keeps turning to new pages with plentiful stages of development the plots we spent on our own entertainment the saving graces racing across the frontier steering clear of civilization for they offer too much information that isn’t needed that doesn’t need heeded those rapid steeds leading the way to different days in unexplored corners rushing from the mourners and throwing the black off of their backs dressing in pigtails and hooliganism the kind without sports the kind that purports to think in rainbow languages and to listen to all the right tastes the colors of sound and the rounded bouts of synesthesia the combination of sensations the conversations between to have and to hold and the old ideas breezing by the new the tried the true and the tired and the brewing up cupping hands to the sky and looking up there are plenty of things to say but not in that direction there are no corrections to make no apologies to give from this angle and we cannot strangle something that is already gone we cannot sing along to words we don’t have we cannot grab more metaphors than are reasoned for our consumption there’s something to say but I don’t want to and you wouldn’t like it if I did there are big thoughts and they are caught in the trees on the way to elsewhere while you fish at them with a kite through another sleepless night

justwrite 7 december

there’s no caffeine in this machine the revolution may be internal but it’s an infernal racked while I’m trying to sleep while I’m in kneedeep in issues trying to dig my way out trying to catch trout of the rainbow kind loosely defined as freams the seeds of such scenes as we’d like to activate to water witht eh slaughter of apathy but the antipathy suggests to me that only so many ribbons can be worn only so many heads can be shorn to make a point and how out of joint your legs would be if you tried to free every cause from its marathon the race going on must be run in teams and when it seems to you to be your turn then earn that bread that liberal bed you sleep in lets you steep in sympathy gives energy toward causes and applauds effects looks on to what’s next and takes notes leaves hope in the box and switches up the clocks to let you have the time to unwind the problems and maybe not to solve them but to swim in those shoes for miles in atticus finch style and to do what must be right in any shade of day or night while still washing the dishes while keeping up with laundry and mowing if it’s a lawn you’ve got growing on and so on until the dealing’s done and we have run out of cards to play but there’s still plenty left and I haven’t had my say

Monday, December 6, 2010

justwrite 6 december

not sure what to say about that piece there’s a puzzle but it’s been muzzled nestled in the mothballs calling out the cannons from behind the sofa and there are hopes standing out on the corner waiting for the wind to die down but it lives on and the strong bury the treasure measuring steps away imagining gold can stay buried in poetry or otherwise that’s a surprise I still haven’t read a tea leaf I haven’t brewed and the truth is a lifeline away but not the gameshow kind and not the one that palmreaders have in mind waiting to be done waiting is not the way to move forward let’s make a schedule a deal a feelgood philosophy moving upward onward toward a helicopter landing in an auspicious square the way you dare to plant something in this soil is not quite excusable really hardly usable and the temperature besides leaves something to be desired being fired without being clay leaves something to say and it’s not hello and there are mellow corners of the universe I’m drifting toward what about all those windows open into the night they are letting out the light sifting life through squares in easy-to-compare doses the movers and the shakers and the candlestick makers all those takers out doing their thing and the givers realizing shivering but with their pockets still out with their doubts still pushed aside this one won’t hurt this loan will be repaid the fading colors will return will earn interest it’s an investment and the best meant and the best believed equally deceived but this is a different chapter the laughter of those pages and the stages upon which snow falls again the scandal of a lamp post catching just the right angles down in the courtyard it isn’t hard to imagine tragedy it’s easy to freeze with eyes wide open and a mouth full of air but to compare what’s being said and what’s being heard is to notice the absurd coming in at the ears we have fears and we wrap ourselves in safety nets neglecting to remember that these are not warm but there are storms over those seas and the breeze is more than necessary the dispensary of hard knocks clocking the tower right in the face and replacing the chase with the seeking the hiding and the finding the neverminding the pleasant surprising and I wouldn’t mind subscribing to that I wouldn’t mind sitting on that quiet end of the table and learning to listen more remembering that there’s no score and it’d be easy to say that everyone wins but that’s just not the case there’s plenty left to face besides what’s in the mirror but the quieter the clearer and it’s a find I don’t mind mining in the meantime

Sunday, December 5, 2010

justwrite 4 5 december

now we’ve made it to this season and there is no reason to rewind we had fine times but we drank that wine before it was ready and the steady-going rumor is a tomorrow we can’t fathom hard to imagine such a grand canyon between what we thought we brought and what we truly bought when the bag was opened and our hopes were roped in to and really what I came here tonight to tell you is a new view on falling I was walking I was talking maybe hurrying the buttons on my coat yes but the zipper no it cannot stand pressure and will not start up will not do its duty when there’s any sort of hurryup attached and when we left the restaurant so I was thinking too bad too drafty but crafty of those makers to attach a backup plan and I’m not saying they were anticipating faulty craftsmanship but maybe they knew my fingers would slip or the zipper would trip itself up anyway the play resumed and into the zoom the freezer faster moving zone honing in toward home when suddenly I was down hard and it was simply a fact I took a moment to react propped myself up on my elbows and surveyed the situation then got up with little hesitation and said yes I said yes I’m fine thanks only wow that was a surprise and no it’s the first time this year and she said well then it’s the only time it’s a sign you won’t fall anymore this winter and a splinter of pain worked its way from my palm to my neck and when I wake up it will check me in one place and I will face the ceiling feeling just a little off and wondering how that happened but I will adapt and then go about my day stretching through the way it ought to be but what I meant to turn to first was the ride back toward home in a bus with frosted windows the glass flashed in fractals and no way to tell but to lean to the front windshield to see it yield some sort of clue where you want to be had better be where you are because there’s no way to find another but out I went stepped into the snow again and scanned the path a small slip a skip a slide but forward and on until I found myself in the middle of a field a collection of dips and swells and ankle-grabbing dents and having spent half the energy to get across I looked up and was lost suddenly falling again but this time into the sky the stars so clear not far but easy to trip into and be suddenly gone and in the morning when I wake up I will see these same stars and I will wonder as I check myself into place stretching into day

Friday, December 3, 2010

justwrite 3 december

underneath the sidewalk the blazing saves itself keeps warmer the route forward we are tired of making meaning with our words we’d rather you heard what we felt like saying instead of playing along within the lines the colors are fine but the pumpkin is squash and there are no more vegetables waiting in the snow it’s a cold wind blowing but the buttons are all sewing themselves right on singing getalong songs in the back of the auditorium the boring funs around the track counteract the view and it’s true that it’s the same but the game gets played anyway like why do the commercials always work when the recording skips over key sorts of details it never fails the pie gets baked a thousand mistakes at a time but there’s no worry no rush no foul no fuss and we don’t even have to play baseball to swing that one we don’t have to trust a busted set of chops hopping over the fence into the woods and through the other side of day we are playing those songs that we used to remember but now we forget and we’re wondering when it’ll hit us that all that’s past is gone and the stronger lines have already been spoken the TV remote has always been broken and we haven’t got a chance I was never one for dance of the public sort the distortion of mirrors is not enough to bluff this viewer the truer the look the faster the exit and it would take a lot of smoke to shoot down that attitude to light that fire all the drier sheets in the world couldn’t lap up that static and when the sound comes in from the hall I will wonder again if it’s a child a cat if it’s a scattering anything that needs to be gathered up there’s too much time on the screen and not enough on the clock and when I pick up what I’ve bought I’ll wonder about the receipt I will keep the records discreet but when you play them save them softly ride them like rafts into crafts of different sorts distorted or purportedly straightforwardly those are for you and the usefulness has worn off I am scoffing at my feet in the double socks and slippers and I am still not taking anything off I haven’t got anything to hide but I’ve tried to seek and tried to find and pay no mind to the time it takes to look and the books I’ve still to write are waiting in the overthere and they can stay for now they can sit for now and they can roll over for later we all have our own best tricks

Thursday, December 2, 2010

justwrite 1 2 december

there is no space left in my dream journal and so I cannot go to sleep I’ve got to keep treading treacherously across the ice and I am remembering that this is how it is this is the time there is rhyme but no reason and it’s a treasonous season this is when people lose their faces and turn into feet I cannot look up I cannot watch for trucks or other greetings there are only steps to take turning into mistakes too easily too slippery the road and too slippery the walk we balk at easy errands comparing outside ventures with perilous indentures we are selling ourselves too cheaply and needing things too deeply when we ought to stay at home and monitor the situation we have some sources of frustration inside yes but here it’s easier to stand them it’s easier to stand up straight to face the wind and to spin easily today the way seemed clear enough but it was another bluff to call anybody’s fall today and there’s a lot of knocking on wood in this neighborhood and yes I stopped and did it yes I rapped on the table once and I’m a dunce if I don’t and I’m done if I do too because there’s more of the same where that came from and it’s not a plain plain it’s a slippery slope made of hope and water crystals a mystical system a problematic cistern dumped upside down drowning easygoing mopes with their summertime hopes all along the wayside it’s a quick glide or a careful step forward and we’re all warned but some have to hurry some have to worry and the bus doors won’t open and the bus floors are hopefully clean but not in the freshest wettest icy of ways where we save ourselves the trouble of walking when the lurch goes forward and the feet slide along inches at a time and it’s an uphill climb to see where it’s all going next but with any pretext I will hide under the covers for a few more minutes just to see what’s in it for me which is warmth and safety and yes I’ll go out and yes I’ll face doubt but in the meantime I’m just fine and I can see alright from here