Tuesday, February 23, 2010

blue jean sky, i love you, you mother fucker

pour it down. soak me silly. sea swallow these streets with your sweet nothings. the calm, quiet, clam that is my heart is sitting still, knowing you are there and loving you for it. what a miracle of moments it has all turned out to be. you play your harp and i'll sit in this aching body, pulse with life, stare out from these bones, think a flock of thoughts. i'll signal you when it's time. i'll line up my feet with walking. i'll plant some seeds for you to remember me by.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

make your tools forget their work in the homecoming of your hands

because the moon drips light across the invisible boundaries through, inside of, and between the lips and tongue of language. because your spine binds you like the most beautiful book. because families of thoughts brush up against the sighs of telephone wires. because seasons ramble through our years and graze upon us like the idle dreams of sleeping bullets. because the city is the constant erased etch-a-sketch of the ceaseless tides of people. because turtles dream of music we can't begin to imagine. because flowers are just the earth reaching. because mason jars like to be full of tea. because boots enjoy stomping. because books relish the concentration of our eyes. because dancing is the soul of restless winds. because the hunger is too great and too vast to ever be permanently fed. because the point of socks is to keep your feet warm. duh. because the smell of shaving cream, the smell of fresh cut grass, the smell of basil, is the knockout punch of instant nostalgia. because your eyes are the polaroid camera of your heart. because you get swallowed by grief's thorns, but get blossomed by love's water. because the strange ocean of your mind resembles the blur of hummingbird wings. because wine makes love to your blood and laughter massages loss. because you're good at breathing.

this is why.