post 8 march

justwrite 8 march

once we add up all the total number of subtractions and divide a few seasons for scattered reasons we’d rather not discuss it is incumbent upon us to remember the tidings and also the tides we have wide acres of knowledge and also of mud today with the sneakers and the music but the dogs and the houses that could not have belonged there that might have squared off in a different kind of catalog the trough notwithstanding the outhouse a doubtful accessory but the cabinstyle bricklike guard dog birds flew about with their absurd colors all ablaze and the amazing part was the departure back to sense from whence we all return sooner or never and forever ago the fever lifted we have drifted through different circles we have tightened the bagels into smaller rotations our nations are united in appreciation the fascination with holidays glazing over the nonsensical amount of ginger poured into that idea I am translating my listenings into glistening understanding pretending with a face that says otherwise we are smiling back and forth and the north doesn’t snow what the east can’t show like we always used to say back way back when geography wasn’t born and storms brought lilacs instead of rain and you might patiently explain again they are related but friend I do not need a lecture I am dwelling here upon conjecture and if you don’t like my hypothesis then you can floss with this farewell for the rest of your stay and your clean clean teeth will greet the mirror but we won’t be any nearer to understanding each other and it’s a shame for your mother is so kind and it’s truly a musical interlude when she exudes a tune or two of sense in your direction and I happen to be standing nearby but if this is goodbye then that’s fair well enough

justwrite 7 march

the carbohydrates date the fated figs growing big in the middle then dropping off plumly making up numb tongues to do their own bidding forgetting when and why and how high the sky has to go before it grows greener and then dark the park in the sky is a wild idea but to drive up there simply means Virginia it’s that easy and the treesy breeze calls back at once having had a hunch that there was more to say having waited past the point of useful exchanges and replacing them instead with colors and numbers of pages we are waging pointless pointings-out against the sense of it we have immense trenches of it into which we keep falling calling out for the orchestra to be more beautiful to perform more dutifully and remember when we hung up but we cupped our ears to listen for more and to store each word for easy recycling let us return to the burning I am tired of making faces at myself and imagining my health of the most significance there are acres of other things to consider and the figures don’t add up in my mirror but there are no clearer signs no easier designs to blueprint than a lack of control over the whole strolling crowd there is loudness in we but for me it is quiet there is no try it is only a badge to earn in front of a stern audience and the scarf is soaking it is a token heatwave past the last one and I am stunned with the lack of right words on either side startled by the lack of closure after any exposure but this is not the right word either aching with a fever of empty depth and having leapt into the light finding it all much too bright

justwrite 6 march

there are starches that will not keep this shirt straight I have waited for the fated button I am cutting open the rent and finding inside a chicken and it is hatching from which came first the rehearsal hasn’t started but the curtain is going up lifting cupped hands full of fools the hope that you’ll put your numbers in the right order when you go to pay your taxes that I will learn that to relax is a miracle cure and when you’re sure that your plan will pan out then you can call me full of troutstreams these scenes are and the jumping is hard to follow and the morrow is worth the sorrow of a thousand turtledoves folding themselves into cranes the luck that runs up and through and never out the south and the north switching sides and hiding in the closet until the other comes out to play until the stages are set we are ready to forget I am too awake to fake sleep and I will keep my eyes open in hope in search of boots in search of lutes playing themselves into spring the second hands the third and the words in the right order are sorting themselves out snoring all the spaces into place we are rhyming our thyme and parsley with rosemary and scarborough fair on the way to thanksgiving we are praising the raisins we are forgiving ourselves for our lack of forgiveness the bigness of heart we see in ourselves our selfish shelves of stored-up glory we are proud and quietly loud about it the cattle are lowing but we are growing our self-images up in the backyard guitar-playing imagination we are collecting our thoughts and publishing them but maybe we should keep a few for ourselves maybe we should start a fire maybe we should admire our dreams but measure too our accomplishments and we have sent ourselves packing in the other direction we are wishing that lessons came with answers a special key given to the teacher unlocking the special features and telling us what to do next when the text turns into choose your own adventure

justwrite 5 march

adrift on a rift in the abyss the void avoided by deep sheep and the sleep of ages the rock of cages and stages in cabarets the old chums coming undone at the seams and seeming to dream outside of Technicolor the blunders all up close and the most of the least like the best of reliefs and the worst of rehearsals all ending up on a warm lap to sleep and to be relieved to have answered questions and lessons learned we are churning up the butter the better forgetters like the letters that make numbers out of holidays I am staying awake I am taking the cake and letting them eat it we were discreet in our butter and honey but now they want all of our money we are living off of carrots and socks but the locks can’t be broken with such cheap tokens the goods are for sale and the carpets are turning into a tom waits song too long we’ve missed the bits we’ve risked the reminiscences we are wishing for some other dawning or an awning without eyelids heavy on the looking glass classic screen green turning blue and nothing we can do but to ask for tasks to be completed to be repeated with certificates and marks pressed back into the dark no recommendations for higher stations no relations no quotation marks of that style no tiles on those ninety-odd pages just stages of history blistering in the steppe having leapt over tongues for unstrung distances there are resistances and I am many of them there are circles and I have drawn a square there are here there are where they who say when how you count your stars and keep them lucky strung up by guitars and tickling their ivory smiles as the miles to go before you turn right pass by and suddenly they have left

justwrite march forth!

I won’t say that it’s true it’s you it’s a few too many variants the chariots swing so low there are no sweet cherries the berries are all aflame and the names slur toward the same syllables we are riddles solving ourselves and thrilled with our cleverness the clovers picked never have enough leaves leaving something to be desired firing all comers and calling back no numbers for three or more days the golden leaves the wheat the rye all the catchers snatching earth and sky borrowing water and air everywhere you can get them we fit them together puzzle pieces in a captain planet ring singing again and again the same words I would like to say there are ways and there are exits we are collecting our tickets and seeing how they add up we are cupping numbers and letters and sweating the big the little and the middle verses they try to rhyme but the fine-feeling reels can’t steal the spotlight bright enough to bluff the listener we are twisting our ankles and thanking the stars the bars and cars all crashing into each other and we avoid all others we are quiet in our corners we are pushing away the mourners and waiting for the sun we are carrying by the ton the world the steel cables coming unhinged from the beginning and the end we send the inbetween dreams back to their original stages asking for pages to be turned one at a time and it’s fine if no one’s reading there’s no drive to be succeeding faster or long lastinger than real words can reach but to teach is something and to sit is not

no idea what to write is the plight of so many frames the names disappear the clearing where the birds sing they are flinging their merry way to the other side of tomorrow there are sorrows and there are joys all employed with regular jobs of lifting up nice and setting down mean and in between dreams we drift we lift our heels and our toes and we slide forward we glide toward the next step we have leapt off the sidewalk we have talked ourselves to sleep again we are diving into the deep again and arriving in a thriving scene green and beautiful we throw off our dutiful list and we miss all our appointments caught up in anointing the new season with plenty of reasons to sing

justwrite 3 march

today the heart is a lonely honeymaker the drone with the miles to go before smiling to sleep and the steep incline looks just fine from the other side of the tracks the river shivering into shorts and looking at pictures of the gone world cannot go back cannot keep track of those letters the ladders all let down the towns evolving and solving their own equations we are saving our stamps for the damp when the humidity will free all needs and push forward into the glorious mailroom the stale gloom of stickiness tickling pink each ivory tower we are listening for the piano we are hearing the guitar in the stairwell and that’s just as it should be the ringtones all phone home to the ears of others and their mothers ought to know the candles ought to glow brighter in the nightlier news the anchors can’t choose which cavities to chew without those doubts I thought I shouted out earlier but maybe it wasn’t aloud maybe we were not allowed to tell stories like that we weren’t allowed to make or keep track of the racks of collapsible bedposts I am tired before most of the rest starts to happen but if I can get through the next day and the text may find me but I’ll remind me that there’s plenty of time for no more answers we’ll take our chancers

justwrite 2 march

let’s talk about priorities let’s sort out from these some of lesser claims the fame is nothing but the waning moon is wanting soon to have more to explore in the night there are bright lights and big cities and large dogs and small kitties but that has nothing to do with where I’m going what I’m doing tomorrow and three days from now the cows will come home fast asleep and little boy blue will stick in his thumb and pull out a candlestick diddle diddle dumpling over the hills and far away and quack back come the ducks and the luck doesn’t run out but sometimes it jogs or skips a little there are bits in the middle but the outside is unclear there are fears but they are not worth saying out loud this is what I should be learning this is what makes up what I’m earning we are burning midnight oilcloths and counting our losses in cheese we are freezing our ears and calming our eyes with surprise invitations that have already been accepted on your very own behalf and you can do nothing but laugh and pass the carafe to a nearby giraffe who appreciates the gesture but simply nods it along the line the circle or finely twined marmalade smiles the kisses in style the wild children who don’t have to worry the furious alarm clock the translation exercises the surprises when you realize where your calendar went and you thank the person who sent you the clue so you could find it rewind it and set it back a few hours more just to find out what’s in store when your eyes close early

justwrite 1 march

the first day of spring brings with it a cleanup effort the sounds abound and the splashes catch us off guard it’s hard to walk and to talk at the same time but we feel fine even looking down at the ground so our feet don’t meet puddles we are muddled and befuddled over where the leaves are when the cars and the boots will be clean again waiting for it all to be green again we are friends and friendly lending good feelings and clean dealings until the time is up until the car horn sounds until a round-up of the hours results in flowers and in sunshine feeling so fine and ready to march there are parks to be explored and work to be ignored with that energy stored up over winter and turning now to blossom