nonsense on high

13 January 2013 § Leave a comment

I don’t know where to begin. Last night I found an amphitheater in a park disguised as a wall ball court. My newest best friend had let me take his golden retriever for a walk, and while she ran through the muddy night time park, I traced the lines between layers of brick and wondered where my voice belonged. I feel like I haven’t written in ages. Written for real, like translating the world into how I see it like some people do with music or with paint. For months I’ve hesitated to call myself a poet, for I felt that role belonged to people who did something tangible with words. Something real and unforgiving. I’ve been busy with forgiveness, molding a place for it into my stories and loves like some do with clay.

So while some compare what we have to what I’ve said I’ve had before, to what I have in the recent past longed for, to what they may not have had, I keep wondering what I’m changing into. The broom closet door creaks ajar, and I’m trying to keep up with the movement of the hinges.

I’ve disappeared into the cosmos. I keep rewriting stories. I wonder what those I’ve left behind think now. The drum beats hit the plaster with the sex sound of a snare. I think I’ve made my way downhill since we chatted with the mountaintop. Find the storm. It’s not far away. God damn, those we blame need our mercy more than most.

The rhyme and meter and rhythm flux, purpose, sense of humor laments the notebooks we’ve emptied into swamps. I climbed rock today with the weakness of a newborn child. Let the granite judge us hence. We’ve got handprints on the north face waiting for our fingers to take hold. Let me clear the woods of fog, and mistresses, hear this: what you see and what you hear are senses that I’ve missed. Remember all the nights we’ve spun fire with. They live in black and white and sepia, siding with their kin.

Licentious, squandered.

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