Big Red

I overanalyze and overcompensate
With anxious tries to somehow save
The situation, but verbalize
What I shouldn't say, and
Find us fit in overtime with the
Same quips and daily aggravations
Which no one really wants to play
Still, my mouth keeps throwing
Words away
Too stubborn to forfeit or find negotiation
At ends, I so eliminate the competition—
Which respond in calling the day
And refusing stall, to listen—

Guilty for my

Wrong Thing

Wrong Time

Wrong Place

Wrong Line

Associations

Catastrophe seems to be obsessed with me
But this isn't fair, I can't help
To breathe villainous air
On a hero's street
I'm honest—please, we know this—but
The truth too often comes out so mean

This photograph

Reads like an epitaph

Scrawled on Birthday tomb-frame

In light of you, it just wants to break

Harrowing web-crack in tact design

As arrows attacking that depth

Perceived between you and I

Tidal wave eyes which sent

The signs I first applied

To each obvious try

At subtlety; that irony

Is the gossamer dust

Feathered across us,

Bound by four walls

Where found reason you'd fault

Cameras for capturing you at all

Because, in the flesh,

Nothing combats

Or tacks limits on your part

So, sorry for the golden flash

But someone saw through those

Smiles sported, being so close

To something greater than perfect;

They knew I'd appreciate

That I had

At least a single photograph

To reminisce how simple it'd been

For me to make you laugh

As well, recall: The hours

Spent on phone calls

Between two kids who'd never seen through

More than a mere few minutes

On any and all other truths

But it's no surprise, you've admitted

Seeing as we're essentially

The same person

And we've always been

The only Best Friend ever had

Who we could stand

To keep up with

Be up with to such late ends

Among those thousand other traditions

By which we play

Tribute to at midnights

Or afternoons, or sunrises, but every day)

But there's something to be said

For the bridges that just won't collapse—

No matter how heavily tread,

How violently burnt, and hacked at—

And I've not sunk ours yet;

It's just now hid behind the trees.

So won't you come jump off this one with me?

War and peace of mind.

It was the white noise

Of heartbreak, against a backdrop

Of bleak fog across the

Blacktop;

Children's heads inclined

Tipped their necks

Managed mass wide-eyed

Awe—to assume

The moment,

Consume their pasts.

And sparrows manipulated

The atmosphere

By arrow configuration

Sculpting proofs through

Tidal sonic waves and ultra-violent light years,

In slow motion,

On atomic fears for chronic fixation.

So kaleidoscope friction became this

Eyeful or eyesore on sky-borne decision;

The bombs sprang beautiful,

Suspended by the handful

For gravity submission.

Every heart can hear, that listens—

Though rarely does a soul mean to hold ends

In any context, but amongst the

Bray and fray of wars

Years or hours old.

But you'll still suit up,

March the borders of

The continental spirit

For even ephemeral bliss

Can bade eternal remembrance—

If only to afford you access

To visions of a visceral fortress

You've long fought against, and with;

If only to permit permanent essence

To any stretch of limit or merit

Bearing on your blatantly blaring existence—

And I am all in,

Where care abides, just as when

The universe provides unit force to

Every battlefront conflict we've commanded;

I am

All for never forgetting you.

Renaissance Man

But well-rounded as a Renaissance:

Knight's novel, dragon's diary found

Amongst the aftermath—

Rather than a moral that

One may furthermore learn from,

Or, otherwise, contest to having read,

Somewhere in context of being young

There is no catch of denouement

The descent from climax runs far too quick

And lines blur beyond distinction

Betwixt villain and protagonist—

A Hero with a crutch, or flux in virtue;

A Monster owning trusted conscience

Predispositions, they create this world

Where great and good don't coexist

I'd a call one Thursday late afternoon—as the moon

Grew in to its star-encrusted crib;

When I was just beginning to have control over my mouth,

Mere weeks after most had tacked checks to last-minute lists

Grabbed their long-packed shit

And drove down South

Purged of those otherwise, the kids still in town

Worth the breath to hear from then or even now

Found footing 'long a path which perused front steps of a home

Belonging to some man I used to know

Whose number I'd not immediately recognized—

Although, two seasons 'fore, had tried all privy ties—

Whose voice ran the length of grapevines straddling orchards

Ensnaring through blaring drumbeat of light-hearted wars

I remembered alcohol in driveways

Transferred to styrofoam cups ablaze

By lusted fool or burnt-out soul, halved with carbonation

I remembered afternoons spent in bed with

His then-Best Friend

Who, since, has slid toward retract of contact

Though the recent circumstance grants less impact

Than it should—in reuniting the men who had

Re-introduced me to hours fondly to-be kept,

That life is a verb, not some form of object

I remembered the golf course, bay-side park bench

And a number of near-burn-and-crash accidents

The crimson plaid of a shirt

Sported by one whom I held more dear than I knew

In the context of the current frame on Winter;

Garden car-storms, and Icelandic indie films, and lullaby bands

I remembered the outside incidents

Which resulted in Engagement

Come winter's midlife—as well, disparaging connection

Intertwining any interrelation of mine to them—

To mark this abrupt delay but ultimate parade

In stark bliss of that time period:

The Age of Enlightenment

I remembered clandestine dew-ridden hills

Freckled by foreign trees and sleeping castles

Where the steel slate of sky was smothered by

Suave expanse in feather-banded stars

Collapsed by constellation

Commanding conversation captivation

Construed for Heroes and Histories across

Their blueprinted fragmentation

I was always in a wave of inertia

Slipping me forward on pure volition

More heed was afforded my soul,

Distracted from all my diversions

In the past month or so,

We've caught up—scape at neck-level—

But it's still just yet another fatal collision

Retrial on guile for viable 'experiment'

Will inevitably backfire as just one more Ex

And when then called to bed

By the amused whisper of Death

I'll duly afford a history of missing my marks

Remarkably well;

And own ten thousand tells

On proven trends that tend to break a heart

Or simply die, for flush by dramatic chagrin

Standing—though never in stable fashion—on my feet

Being that the irony

Of breathing shallow Goodbyes on my knees

Proves not to be becoming of One

Who's watched far too many more, knelt before her,

Promising Forever

When Immortality wore thin, there's not much else

But Love and Self to fault

So I shall remain until then

Persecuting the lack of precision therein

Where this backward word, for being forward, toward—

Not a language, and without a past recorded—

Application onward for want of better mindset

Though Self coincides with no given formula or set spectrum;

As Love prides itself on being not proficient for test—

Much less, any inch close to an 'Exact Science'

VOX

Though not brought to attention

Until your speech, on the offhand, reaches interim

I am, all too often, immersed in the inflection

On sweet reflections exchanged across our every conversation

And suspense, it coils tightly in the airwaves winding between each word

Then expends brightly when mind and mouth are met, familiar

For all well-intentioned phrases

And pale prolix creations

Of poetic contagion

Grasping in a space tenuously illuminated

Toward graceful diction, of romantic palette

None shall ever fit or fall on my regard so fondly

As do your overtures, owning that you want me

Thoughts brimming the conscience of a childishly hopeless Romantic

The breathlessness in your expression

Your fingertips threading, by delicate inches,

Silent tremors just treading the surface of my skin

To render a heartbeat hardly held for naught but those stitches

You've meshed with the freshly-gashed gaping mess I'd been

Preceding this minute

Where evidence grows malignantly obvious in owning that I might just have met

A window intangible along walls of a night I'd so long been

Falling (ungracefully) apart in pursuit of, on cue of gutted months

Drawing toward darkness, the perused (cancerous) love—

Which saw me this assumed-far-gone wreck

I'd yet to imagine any else could quite contest—

But here I sit, honest and infinite

Against the staple-gunned immobile irises

I'd, as of late, found all the more embers and pigments—

Just arbitrary figments on fragments of 'til-this-moment madness—in

By the earnest of a season that had long-forgotten our names

And furthest-from-reason logic which was short lived (so we claimed)

You caught me—haloed by red lights in the held breath of an intersection—

Where gravely noting the dead-end signs along the one-way you'd once taken

Beneath something resembling discretion of the slumber of a silence,

As thunder begs such quiet following stark spills of brightness,

To unfold for hearts the chills most forget

Captive to contrasted Dark, or under masquerade of Fluorescence

It commands a waking violence

That may very well blind us—

Or would, had the sun not already fallen behind us

And were your eyes not steadily swollen with the finest

Photographs never fixed;

Lips forming exchanges

Which didn't make sense to be sincere yet—

By the daylight hours bleeding through

Fractions of your half-way open shutters

Crafting patterns, deeming you, and all of this, of unforeseen significance

Emulated across the canvas of your grandest, vulnerably sweet reaction

To my starts and smirks and shudders, for which I fault you full merit

While here I lay, so foolishly ensnared in all the Joie de Vivre and Carpe Diem

You harness within hem of the fortress behind those irises I'm so defenseless against

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

Storyboards: On a love which is, by definition, intrinsic

This brightness which we can't contain

The finest stitch these hands have made

A single inch remarkable against

A mouth of darkened histories, swallowing whole

All but our present tense, as of late

Your irises, they illustrate the pattern—

Subtle movements I read and mock

Where passion becomes Choreographer;

Where flesh is passed from palm to palm—

Of rare, as pure, commodity

Fairly offered as being, otherwise, obsolete

Under discretion of those not so elite

Amongst the sewn strategies

Of Pearl-Wallflower and Right-Hand-Soldier symphonies

Wherein studies conducted, on consensus constructed

By creases written upon inlets framing your cheeks

Illuminating moments otherwise unscripted—

Being conscious that hollow memory unfolds bleak or empty—

And occupy the sympathy of what employed to a Circadian

(Insecure in its until-then-impertinent) Rhythm

Though magnified, and burning

Through fury of fortune's adoring eye

Strung like those flavoured-Undaunted, coloured-Rose

Melodies gentle; they peruse your tongue and expend themselves—

The most aesthetic of awed monologue human ears have held—

To stand or waltz along my senses, proud not of the words

But sudden intention for their dance,

And such poetics being intrinsic—by elucidation's very object, procured

Each come and craft that void where we couldn't remain,

Under massive foisting of disenchantment engraved,

Now, at middle seam, has split; spilt in to Miracles' garment fragments

Which found pause in the soft activity and warmth of our souls

That what inflates then indents our wrists with evidence

Of hardly-passive Heart-rates

Hello, boy.

I am alive.

I am awake.

I am

awkward

and

awestruck,

abstract

and

absurd.

I am

astounded to

ascertain

(again, oddly enough) that I've

afforded

all that which

any girl

aspires to

assert (though most

abdicate such

allowances through

abscission of

autonomy over own

anatomy):

a heartbeat which doesn't hurt.

And

I am

always

absolutely Yours.