Big Red

2009-11-17T18:19:00.001-06:00

In the stillness of the morning

Where your breath is stardust-casual

As musky aftermath of the midnight tea

Amongst the grace of constellations oligarchical

Teeth braced against the words

Which might stir the weight of worlds

Unprepared to be struck unperturbed

By stints 'cross their silence stitched gold

Your eyelids, upward, gently billow

Pale fabric hugging the brazened blow

Of the consciousness winding a horizon once hollow

Through rose-petal awnings to unfurl waking windows

Against your gum olibanum suturing the mouth of stereobates

Ascending, from ceiling, blazoned by crime and coffee

Where such stretches seduce the dressers, frame your laughs like Chantilly lace

Inflate my ribs to fix a heart race, in the stillness of the morning

2009-11-17T17:47:00.003-06:00

I'm not an addict, just hooked by mishap or misadventure

And going at it, for that look, I took your time—I know I take forever—

Just please don't see me off before I'm ready, dear

You know I'm never ready on time, but t'least I'm steady, dear

2009-11-17T17:46:00.000-06:00

Interims eternal across a frame of mind

Presented in crooked grins along straight time

Lines radial, fringing pupils full

Of empty-spaced canvas to hold golden-laced soul

Or mirror the bewilderment

Of the first flawless moments reigned only over by raw emotion

Moved to fruition

As actualization

Where roman candles envy one such the explosion

Wide-eyed as well-red

Red-head child stalls at the threshold

To a substantially-sized Library's double—cherrywood, wide—doors

Familiar in its awesome novelty

His arms cradle leather bind of a twisted fable

She'd not been fore consciously capable

In suggesting either of them read;

Now, the confidence amongst this caravansary

Poised in the grips of each glance—

By which she appraises his company's casualty—

Sits so very strangely comfortable

Atop the shoulders of their History

Being that, latterly,

Proven to be merely a Prologue

Oh , I — I wanna be with you everywhere .

2009-11-17T16:27:00.003-06:00

Everywhere Fleetwood Mac cover Vampire Weekend

But you're just the

Goodbye Boy

to my cold morning,

boldly, brightly wound,

Perched on my distractions—

as if I could imagine

thoughts of anything else,

Much less

ones not accorded with

your charms and chagrin

and chivalrous tells

sweet Autumn nothings.

2009-11-17T15:33:00.001-06:00

Mind Ride Jeff The Brotherhood

Pa Pa Power Dead Man's Bones

Quiet Little Voices We Were Promised Jetpacks

Two The Antlers

Waving Flags British Sea Power

Lost In The Plot The Dears

Just Say Yes Snow Patrol

Coverin' our tracks …

2009-11-17T15:12:00.001-06:00

Night Train Brown Recluse

Bad Blood Bear Hands

I Lie Awake caUSE Co-MOTION!

Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth Neko Case

Lightswitch Eternal Summers

Anna Taken By Trees

A Teenager In Love The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart

Dark Trance Free Energy

Spanish Fly Blondes

One Week Of Danger Virgins

Soda Popinski Javelin

Deli Delorean

Norman Bleik I Was A King

Far And Wide Roadside Graves

Careless Love Camera Obscura

Cruiser Red House Painters

Love Is Colder Than Death Virgins

Cold Hands Pants Yell!

Twyce Javelin

90210 Wale

Enjoy The Sun Theophilus London

Place For Us (RAC Remix) Reni Lane

Orphaned Max Tundra

The Trouble With Flying Orba Squara

Magazine Joshua James

Kudos Surf City

Wide Eyes Local Natives

Lalita The Love Language

High Wire The Happy Hollows

When I'm Small Phantogram

2009-11-16T20:16:00.000-06:00

We are all of us connected by strands of chaos,

woven in to the all-sizes-fit-none

sweater boasting its ULife emblem,

faded to near-invisible extent;

the garment's seen more wash

cycles than an umbrella,

moth-gnawed mouths

freckling its girth, a good deal of

the material being long-unraveled

or unraveling,

stitches blooming wild

and unwinding

toward the oblivion of that obsolete—

by sliver of a single thread, each.

2009-11-16T15:47:00.004-06:00

Oh, the ways you, I have had!
Ever losing sleep to stay in bed
I adore the luster—lust on laughter—

Rolling through such familiar flesh,

Lips branding my hips, stomach, neck
Hearts pacing by flat line

Stark shaking and breathless
Unable to stutter comprehensible English

My hair and dress a wild mess

And, mostly, you to blame for it.

On incompetence of idiots, upon entertaining me.

2009-11-16T15:38:00.000-06:00

Is there something in the water

Of wherever you come from?

Was your mother, to the harbor

Racing atomic bombs

Whenever embracing you unborn?

Did she ever shyly admit

To one,

Or two—

A good few slips

From which resulted

Some sick hits to your head young?

Am I misunderstanding?

Have we miscommunication?

Should I take that, as carelessness

For not wanting to argue with me?

Or have you just not the required education—

To permit words for such

Even stuttered communication?

Have you saved, sealed, and mailed

For God's Electric Company bills—

Since the attic

You've kept

Remains unused as always is unlit?

What holds your sanity so far from home?

Is it infectious? Contagious?

Air-bourn?

Should I be concerned?

At any rate,

I'll leave you of face, like mind, blank—

As well, my untouched glass of your

'Fore offered water.

2009-11-16T15:35:00.000-06:00

Where the rise and fall from lunar waves—

Flight and crawl of gladiator days—

Sigh and brawl for my mistakes or praise;

Try and stall the chevalier's stay

But I find no fault in an undeterred gaze,

Blind to all—if any—easier ways.

2009-11-16T15:33:00.000-06:00

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

2009-11-16T15:28:00.001-06:00

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)

2009-11-16T15:27:00.000-06:00

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.

2009-11-16T15:24:00.001-06:00

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

2009-11-16T15:23:00.003-06:00

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

2009-11-16T15:22:00.003-06:00

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

2009-11-16T15:20:00.003-06:00

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

2009-11-16T15:19:00.001-06:00

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

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

2009-11-10T21:22:00.000-06:00

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.

2009-11-10T18:24:00.002-06:00

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.

2009-11-10T14:42:00.001-06:00

Crack The Shutters Snow Patrol