an hour and years

songs of yesteryear :

2008, 27 august

An hour, a little under two, in a life what to remain. awake, Tucson time. underwearclad, we’ll never sleep, we’ll touch the sky, a perfect down blanket. freezing cold here. It is warm there. My heart will burst into flames and I can make a home from it, camping. Cuddle up to a fire. not smiling still smiling. Everyone looked at me impressed, all of them pleased at my pleasedness. like a gift just suddenly deserved. mustn’t be loquacious. Be laconic. Ooh, reticent, taciturn. to hear him talk for ever for once, his sweet pretty voice and the truths about him. I could hardly know. I awoke and hearts falling out and dying. fret about its immanent end, fret about its immanent end, I have the pleasure. excited beyond compare, thrilled oblivionward, obsessed capricious. I could have become so frustrated to destroy everything, letting it go, it all. I will give of myself openly. So much of everythings. In so soon, beautiful agate eyes, profile, face against smooth neck, eternal smile, arms around, one of the only two blissful people for miles and years.

bequieteth

be not afraid of feeling good,
be not afraid of getting told,
be not afraid of tiring old
be not afraid of trying alone

Mine own hairs stand on end, my own endless days lengthen. My letters excess them selves and superlative the ends of wordss, I am lying, just a body with only life at the wrists and on. So the fingers, bare hands. Fingernails doing the efforts for the restof me.

little consumptions

In late nights I inquire, in daytime I look about sideways at the overcast. In the night I look at the map of a day following, and I listen to the slide guitar drops of permanent rain. A spark of his eyes, the words, the touches, the rekindling she says. Remembering and the sun! o that broad sparkle. Everything like the trains, sometimes they awaken me. It was like a date, but we weren't/ didn't know to think to.

my waste is quieted

From the early morning I toss around, considering arise and a flow of me into day. The black & white animals surround, and I, limbs askew on tiny bed free, awake. I don't have obligation to the telephone, or to the doorbell. I have my own rose portals, portrayed through a door and the dog, I prey, won't sound a cry at the basic intrusions. They live all about, quiet as gnats, save when the fruit grows foul & the flies move, multiply. My sun shivers, my sound shivers in an isolated building's edge kind of way, like the glimpse of a glimmering skyscraper scrape against the blue back of a day. The backgound, and in it revs a distasteful engine. And mine own engine in it's revolutions per second, imploding high to headache heights. Piercing the sky. Mine own revolutions carrying me so. Bite me, we do.

back of the night, autumn most touchable

I likened the stars to views in kitchens and living rooms, the blue glows, the faces facing & talking, the movements before ovens and in cabinets, fiddling silently with a lightbulb, a lit lamp. The dark of grass, of a road, the impressiveness of a damp dwelling and an unlit garden. And over it the softness of an impending summer'send. Lovely how they change & grow. O, september.

ant, the velvet words

It was just the words come in me, those to make seen the real simple of a night. The common scent of flowers on the night breeze of a week-end, the ones smelling like butter or honey. Different bee breeds hover from these flowers & in again at daytime. The crickets, common sound of august, or maybe in oregon frogsounds are commonest. I'd like a test to differentiate. a frog whisper in one ear and the rustle of cricket wing violined against cricket wing; stridulating forgets the hot of a night. Spiders in stridulation, the velvet ant...

treading warm breath morning

just like a kiss the morning starts, without me. her furred feet warm against me, the darkness more night than day, is. the voice like dreamtime maker trading against my headwalls a subtle beat & throb melody. I'm falling past the night now. I don't pull on them, the hairs, and I can see nomore the big gold spider recently webbuilding above the sewing machine. funny should they choose the places used oftenest, or at least of late. just to dare us to keep working. much better than dust gathered. and let it, then, let them all build their intricate perfect villages throughout the subaru. the dog moans, is having a dream. the paw pressed on my leg still warmly twitches. she breathes, should I wake her? Is Dreaming Away, Ida. Let her dream, let the spiders watch & wait for still opportunity.

little rift in shortest summer

Can't I not help it, but the weather somehow took a dip in me. Like the last one left, I'm here in the hollow sounds & shapes. But with all sounds of the dogs who live here, too, and they don't want to be alone. They chase ghosts and feel sad about things, but I don't know it. And I don't think it's true. They hear rain in their bones hours before the first drops. I feel it in the texture of the air, and in the speed of my brain at work. I like all the colors of it, and how it makes a sort of round terrarium out of my house. with just two dogs & me in here. All the lush of the plants outside & drinking, and the cat too out there all wet maybe hiding greeneyed glaring from beneath the neighbor's parked car. In the real wet all there. I can't tell, but the rain just glanced off my skin, even as I moved in slowmotion. All the cars silenced by it. Every rush at pause.