index
1/30
A year ago, next month, I sat in the
desert cold, under the stars.
Framed before them were Vasquez's
rocks and their grinning teeth.
I was made warm next to Via.
If I were to drive 20 minutes from here,
I'd be in the same place
and my guess is that it would be the same
as how I had left it.
I'd see the stars hanging over rocky
formations. I'd feel their weight, and find
comfort in their never changing state.
And when time has echoed lives into it's
quiet chasms,
there will always be memories.
2/9
The art is in
the language is in
the story is in
it's punctuation.
The pilot who anticipated
the landing. The score that
soars a sore, bruising. The
page that ends in one more line. Forever
bound.
the hunter
Powdered for the gun
arching to catch fire
dregs of a thought,
catch in the snare.
a bearstretched dry,
thinks sad,
impending.
a hawkcan't do shit
and the hunter
can't do shit
so it's a zero score game.
(The hunter claims sanity
in striking the list through).
A deer
sears snow
with a violet tear
a dove
dear and dead.
The Hunter, misses,
Mikey's heart, unmarked.
Mikey cries
the bloodied snow who heard
the shots now listens,
and he's kind, but
he cannot do anything for
the list anymore.
for it
all and for himself.
real love
in
his stare.
cry.
it's what he
does right by. the
blue tears burned and
bled
killed forever, for a
moment.
Post it note voicemail riding coach
Express
Time isn't anything
what i know is this,
i wake up
and there are things to be done
and somehow,
somehow,
Tender
Vine is an entry
crawling and predicting
i anticipate
that climbing
is witnessing myself.
Baggage
Find
me
ahead on the tracks
know i
am there
know the shape of my back,
Pullman sleeper
or strain to see
my face as it were.
Dining
Though i had missed her,
do you think she saw me
as she looked to the
earth below?
will i be made of her memory
when she thrashed a
shadow onto 30% of Los Angeles
at 11:23 am?
I am running and
calling after you.
I can only hear
emptied traces or
my own message left on the line,
singing back.
stream
leather strap and nicotine wraps
around your wrist. attempt the smoke that isn't
yours, a man ticks
like a
bomb.from the passenger seat, i
think of it like racing. not
faster than the lover geese. not faster than
a commercial passenger plane. not faster
than
leather and nicotine
wears your face, your
hunger,
smells of waffles
or maybe it's the fog
haunting
higher, reaching for
the stars, and
the wind
between the
stars.
it lets, it
starts to rain.
quiet sounds like
"If I had walked further that night
I would have seen the edge of the world
closer than I had seen it before"steph's 10 liner sent on friday
-
yesterday, 7:05 pm
the butler buildingsmade way for the optical view
burned orange as it thinned on the rims
of the strong birch arm. before
twighlight turned on a lull
in for today and out for tomorrow
listened
to the sounds of the interstate 5
like sounds of a santa barbara tide
9 hours later,
I am brought back to the end
only
closer,
today, 4:20 pm
the end of the world
she arches strong gold strokes
from a higher angle
not submitting into blue,
like she did.
sharp on the shear, i am
the last bastion of wild wood
before it terminates into the city's edge,
her valley a blurring border,
and further
when i wander
to know quiet
quiet sounds like
a plane overhead,
birds chirping in grooves
and the freeway
far in view
fear, should it fall silent
fall asleep
to the sound.