take up these someone other's signals in the smoke, consider them whispering away may the clouds fold unto the carpet fibres, cause heaven to roll into bedrooms and hold everything that gravity's only thinking of keeping down
there. the inside worms climbing trails where i imagined trees and canopies, there are no birds there; they feel safer where they can't be picked at
along they drag swallowed emotions in stone they scrape, rake, i pay them less attention and wait for the slightest light to blaze between my shoulders
it's come to this the way that towers push against the ground to be tall is a little misunderstanding, but let me fold a corner on that one so i can come back to it
if my chest were a ballroom floor, then there have been steppings and creaks all through into my chandelier neck; the air thicked with skirts waving, pirouettes, gazes across the room holding on to my ribs. purple, elegant, glimmering masks sprawling around pairs of isles trying to archipelago trying to ginger through the tectonics of my organelles, flooded with the music of several hearts beating.
the music has kept asking for a hand
the music has kept a hand on my shoulder a hand on my hip a hand in my clasp a head on my breast the string of my eyes stretching and stretching 'til i can really see the yarn in front of me being spun and the cat getting tangled on its back pawing at the towering air
a few years ago, i learned honesty was not a noun to be adjectivised, but a state to be verbed, and more than that, to be lived as a continuous stretch
(what else is upgrowing)
so in an intuitive impulsive address to life, i stated that i would hereby want to be bad at lying in order to surrender all my secrets, (unwanted toys i know were teaching me bad habits)
one by one they left my coffers, sometimes by my handing them over to embracing hands, othertimes by clutching fingers pulling at snapping threads, yet moretimes by no transaction of my own, but by my standing outside castle walls, rained upon, watching the stones wet as my clothes soak and my clutchings slide out from underneath my clever fabrics, damp and discontraptioned. despite the weather, i'd repeated to myself that it was worth losing my patchwork playthings since they would never satisfy (despite their promises otherwise) a few years later, i have a parent who makes sure my head is facing the sea, even in front of the yawning waves, even when i thrash about tattooing emotions on my cheeks and corneas, looking for surfaces to glance at me, so that i can catch me looking back
the glimpse is of a pair of pupils dilating, taking in the wordless brushes of open eyes.
this opening allows me to feel stitchless and gaping, the outbreaths of a hundred people filling it and the strange sound of their swimming irises doing laps over me every day
i have gotten to wear a clock face instead of my own. my hands are tied to one another telling the timelessness of it all, all a little wander
every day the outbreaths of a hundred people bubble into the space of me
they refract they squeeze and they burst, they leave me standing in their oxygen, a swirling bend in the atmosphere
the skin off your emotions slides like slips of ink into blots
there are pages of condensation troubled by the pressed prints of your fingers in the book of us
we wrote a poem, touching at the corners we wrote letters to the dust to gather we wrote that a thought be shut into the binding so that when it opens, the covers would hold
what is there in me in the hallucination pushing at the ground in the teeth barring in words that resonates, that stirs at the string in the someones around me
ties them in naughts, fiddles with a few cells here and there triggers reactions
they are all watching for my earth to spin, to catch at orbiting debris, to circle about what they really want to be closer to
isn't it that senses live on dots three, next to one another with nothing in between, but the what holds them together (a gushing thought someone had) is pressed between our lives
could call them bullet holes without the wall to grip the circle shadows, yet they do leave cold tappings in the air
could call it a wrong number with no other end for the receiver
just a hang-up, the coiling tone wrapped around the hold
sit waiting with a cigarette butt in the background and the handkerchief of smoke lifting away, oh magic
dial pointing
- unfortunately can only see you after you are drawn, but i'm trying before
each person has their own seed of gravity they are growing up and in my place as fellow gardener I notice my hands, always soiled by the soils of everyone; and you, it might be, that you get soil from me stuck to you.
soon you find your seed sprouts strange leaves you never knew it should. these tangled gravities worry me, the gardener of sounds in me vibrates with a kind of unsure resound. those echoes shiver in roots and shoots and it becomes impossible to tell where you and I end because we began two shiverings and then we crossed and the hug from that conversation became a hollow where neither of us can tell apart our intersticed memberings. these beautiful gravities I touch the weavings of, make me some body. how human.
hope without a final vowel is a step into the silent air as if spring were, and planetary bodies once held each other in warmer embraces.
even if patterns pull at people they are still frayed at the core and at the edges they sheen like shadows over concrete slabs in photographs of footpaths. they listen unaware of hearts squeezing
they are trying to constrict the airs that pass through, to pack them and wrap them and gift them to all
all next to together
it has been years, but still hanging are those hopes, garlands over houses rooms where trials for belonging were held; they are trophies taxidermied by the passage of emotion they are imagimachinations of an untogotten whirl of man.
there is a boat smiling down the stream of your consciousness its bottom wet the soil of it weeping forming roots for the round sweetness underneath the sun
the earth is pale in comparison with the stretched wrangling vision between the gnarls you ent
in the afternoon of your life - you draw a sunset out of symbols - you hang up your landry in front of it - you sleep in a hammock in your eyelids but there is a string you see you wish you could grab so that you could uncork the world
to unleash all that rushing happen.
for you, it would seem - a powdered sound over your lashes - silly rain tappings on the awnings over your forehead - a breeze through your air
the pages couched in between that lion figurehead walking around the room and the burgeonings sitting down, thrust roundabout in their seats paying with attention for their retention of what
it's true some books are thinner and pockets less strongly clutching, but hey; the pages have dates or ink in some hieroglyphic form and they're looking for the right mental detector to find what they buried there ago,
à la fois on a visité la rue entre les immeubles, un chemin pressé de béton on a trotté le trottoir avec des pieds mouillés on a imaginé un zéphyr chaud qui nous chuchotais des ponts qu'il faut traverser un jour
ce jour on a épinglé le ciel sous la terre afin de pouvoir lire la carte de la voûte céleste dans la boue sous nos ongles on a entamé un passage vers des empreintes pas laissées.
You can also find me on tumblr at http://hyphonowlet.tumblr.com/
Thank you for your presence and readership. And upon leaving, may you take a pocket of stillness with you, and a smile within, to share with everything.
