Long movies at the back of her throat. Silent ones. In black and white. The dialogue of demons unheard. Yet obvious. Waking up is the hardest part of falling asleep. Closing her eyes. Hoping they won't ever open. Resting the bottle beside her words. Wondering. If anyone has heard. The sound. Of letting go.
The aliens under her skin. Searching for a logic. The time machine in her fingertips hustling to take her back. Or forward. It's hard to tell. She doesn't know. If it's the future or the past. It all looks the same. How do I tell where I am. When everywhere I go looks the same?
It's just time she assures herself. The liar in my birthday candles. Assuring me I am old. It's just time. Convincing me I can't remember the things I'll never forget.
Kittens glued to the carpet by claws they can't control. Stories I see no reason to tell. Skin. Velcro ripping away. The future ripe enough to to swallow.
Friday
6/13/2008 12:43:00 AM
Sad Labels:
acceptance
,
endings
,
frailties
The liar in my birthday candles. Yeah.
The way liar, by long (since childhood) affiliation with the word fire, perfectly fits. And how superimposing a Somone on candles at a table suggests a séance, only festive; so that death and trappings of birth meet up in the same colored light.
O the slammers in Sad Poems, each a Toy Surprise Inside: “Shit in the snow.” In itself crystalline, snappier still in the surrounding passage. “Mousetraps at the edge of my world…” Gaw.
Do things like this come to you all on their own, and you just the scribe? Or is it more you making them or helping them along?
once more the images you provide are inspiring.
thank you for the raw journey you share here.
fly, your interpretations are magnificent.
i suppose it's some of both. sometimes i am just the corpse floating in the river. still farting long after it's dead.
other times i'm the investigator. finding clues. reverse engineering countless crimes.
cheers theo. it means a lot that you're still interested after all this while.
wow, have you ever thought about writting a book. i might take along time. but your material is so... there isnt a word for it. well i love reading ur poetry. <3
i have thought about creating my own compilation of poetry.
it's been suggested before.
but i'm a pessimist. all that work seems daunting. and what little if any satisfaction might be gained. it might hurt too much to expend all that energy for naught.
What if your work here is really a preliminary stage, the uranium for something more?
What if, selected and juxtaposed according to some rationale other than merely chronological, your poems disclose patterns, meanings, tonalities you never guessed at before?
Your favorite words you've said are those you’ve yet to write. You could think of this as a different medium, poems and clusters of poems instead of words and sentences.
you're probably assigning me too much ability now.
it's just mental masturbation. in a public place.
Could be a definition of art.
All that feels good is not ipso facto cotton candy.
good point.
you have a beautifully balanced perspective. insightful, optimistic and yet still realistic.
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