Post by mfwilkie on Jun 1, 2009 6:11:56 GMT -5
I'm wording with my self,
here, in the public eye,
a defy of dissonance for
ivy-towered smiths who
frown on a.me.i.o and u
daring to poke the spines
of settled traditions with
new positions to meaning.
I dance for the bird
who billed twigs for his nest
and left a feather for the goat
to consider.
Imagine a Dicken's corner.
Imagine u there.
Imagine u there,
or here,
under my hat,
under the press of musings
that have leached themselves
through my reserves of sanity
to this page. (Should you be privy
to this much of me?)
Tomorrow, West will turn East
and push to keep the sun higher—
one long day to save five
from the blood-thirsty.
Delicacy blossoms
under a cap of savage hair.
Under a cap of savage hair
La Senora dips her head
as if to say, No, no, dear wind,
this is not the time for play.
Purpose has my attention;
a future rests in these hands;
it must not suffer wayward phrases
from man. No bruised skies.
The world must turn out
to reach its greening,
away from selfishness
which blisters from fear.
Always the best chairs
for our ghosts.
For our ghosts
who haunt our heads
and our passions—
aa whim of la Muse
There are days one wonders
why we ever let them speak,
let them occupy our hours,
amazing over this, over that,
over the least of everthing,
when what might really suit us
would be an abandonment,
some time served in normalcy.
My bed has shrunk in size; now,
it only reaches to the end of the world.
It only reaches to the end of the world.
My optimism. Not foolishness. A study.
Of theater. A preference for theater.
The face of everyday is languaged-deportment,
is silent soliliquies, is seeing fractals
through a forest of trees the wind bends over
in a power play that says don't mess with me,
I have a mother who doesn't need combat boots.
Find an outside corner and be still.
Close your eyes.
Count the seconds until foolishness
drives you away.
The worst of times will have
noticed you.
Noticed you,
noticed me, all of us, but in an act of reduction
that prospers from the present speed of living.
One, maybe two, and one half of one not fully developed,
will have noticed the notes over your head.
How the cream rises is a mystery they will take away.
It's one am in a world where corners
are part of a circle, where the weight
of tomorrow's news will be no less than today's.
I need to turn the radio on.
Find the memory of a lover.
Find that song.
I remember the nights
I've danced through sonnets.
I've danced through sonnets,
under several weathers;
traveling larry-o's and
jazzelvees—kaleidescoping
lynndips that tommed across
floors of particle marble;
that we bruised a few ribs,
kevinced me poets should
always talk in short lines
of long truth; share mind-
speech that builds on the
last great gift of trust.
It's time for sleep, though even then,
I'm wording with my self,
here, in the public eye,
a defy of dissonance for
ivy-towered smiths who
frown on a.me.i.o and u
daring to poke the spines
of settled traditions with
new positions to meaning.
I dance for the bird
who billed twigs for his nest
and left a feather for the goat
to consider.
Imagine a Dicken's corner.
Imagine u there.
Imagine u there,
or here,
under my hat,
under the press of musings
that have leached themselves
through my reserves of sanity
to this page. (Should you be privy
to this much of me?)
Tomorrow, West will turn East
and push to keep the sun higher—
one long day to save five
from the blood-thirsty.
Delicacy blossoms
under a cap of savage hair.
Under a cap of savage hair
La Senora dips her head
as if to say, No, no, dear wind,
this is not the time for play.
Purpose has my attention;
a future rests in these hands;
it must not suffer wayward phrases
from man. No bruised skies.
The world must turn out
to reach its greening,
away from selfishness
which blisters from fear.
Always the best chairs
for our ghosts.
For our ghosts
who haunt our heads
and our passions—
aa whim of la Muse
There are days one wonders
why we ever let them speak,
let them occupy our hours,
amazing over this, over that,
over the least of everthing,
when what might really suit us
would be an abandonment,
some time served in normalcy.
My bed has shrunk in size; now,
it only reaches to the end of the world.
It only reaches to the end of the world.
My optimism. Not foolishness. A study.
Of theater. A preference for theater.
The face of everyday is languaged-deportment,
is silent soliliquies, is seeing fractals
through a forest of trees the wind bends over
in a power play that says don't mess with me,
I have a mother who doesn't need combat boots.
Find an outside corner and be still.
Close your eyes.
Count the seconds until foolishness
drives you away.
The worst of times will have
noticed you.
Noticed you,
noticed me, all of us, but in an act of reduction
that prospers from the present speed of living.
One, maybe two, and one half of one not fully developed,
will have noticed the notes over your head.
How the cream rises is a mystery they will take away.
It's one am in a world where corners
are part of a circle, where the weight
of tomorrow's news will be no less than today's.
I need to turn the radio on.
Find the memory of a lover.
Find that song.
I remember the nights
I've danced through sonnets.
I've danced through sonnets,
under several weathers;
traveling larry-o's and
jazzelvees—kaleidescoping
lynndips that tommed across
floors of particle marble;
that we bruised a few ribs,
kevinced me poets should
always talk in short lines
of long truth; share mind-
speech that builds on the
last great gift of trust.
It's time for sleep, though even then,
I'm wording with my self,
