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