honey_eclipse

I have not posted here in quite some time. The desire to write has been lingering under my skin, but as previous posts in this journal will attest to, sometimes all it does is linger, maybe fester. But the thoughts are there, like this one.

that somewhere in one of those myriad of possible (if not probable) worlds, you know the worlds philosophers are constantly harping that don't really matter? I still love you there, and a little bit here.

Sightless white graves of
a South American storm, the tides
of the gulf sleeping like
low candles suffocated by
her fingertips in that pale night,

I held her hand in the surf, and
the sharks scattered, we were invincible
against lifetimes, moments, everything to
glide between the soft expanse of a breeze
that licked across that flesh of ours

That met the sun, galloping towards
the chimes of a derelict porch
sinking in the sand and her pale
legs awash in night waves with wine and lust,
the shells softening under Orion.

it is the fiercely original fire
and steady procession of dusk which
saves us.

the spark calculates
and there it is,
the little taste of gold,
her distractions, like a train whistle
or the heart of a deer
in a glowing snow, no leaves,
no life around, just a footstep or two
searching for permanence.

spiral drip
good luck, erosion
caves fall quiet

in the end our journey keeps us,
the quickest way to the slippery earth,
the quietest fretting and spit,
again and again we curse the reason
that contains our vast and slowest
of honors, kill the whitest part,
stain it in the promises a young
self, the mirror in us, once made.



we are all unfinished, infinitely gesturing towards the expanse our souls contain, trapped by our bodies, our heat, our language. imperfection remains obvious in the slick daydream of dawn. we make efforts that are rewarded by vice. I myself am exhausted of it. I want the essence of the few truths I hang against to come to me in a knock at my door. and when I open it up I can look around and see no one, but at my feet lay everything that moved me in an hour of passion when the fear of death was nothing but puddles in caves.

now I am hardened, afraid of the touches we create to pass the time, afraid to lay truth in the night with its language of skin and practiced looks. the faces I meet have begun to blend into one. to be honest, I am weary, fatigued, afflicted and completely dumbfounded on how to affect the balance I manifest through illusion alone. my frustration leaks like oil through the pores of exchanges and handshakes, and besides the perfect stranger, everything in my time becomes lost in a language I've created. To simply assume people understand is an incomprehensible mistake that I make daily, and in a way have become trapped in it. to also assume that people know what they walk into, or away from is a sin of another entirety. all of this projects into my mind that I am a living portent of misfortune, only there when needed, yet the first thought to be forgotten out of a dreamless sleep.

what is it, to promise
the leaving of broken
tides and fingertips?
to lighten up on love,
and liquor, to dance in
an utter darkness of calm.

what is it of a woman,
the curve of her back away
in the string of the sun,
clever, clear, her eyes looking
in candles, flickering
in gusts, her hands held

against her chest, a patient
giving, a restless taking
of the quiet beats that move
her towards you, her hair a swarm
of fire, her lips kept in motion
by a final, tiny prayer.

a year ago in the woods I spotted a fox. its eyes turned towards the sound of me, one paw lifted for the slightest moment before bolting off into a pile of leaves the color of its fur. I followed to where it had been, the empty hope of perhaps still finding it there. but the fox, of course, was gone.

at the bottom of the hill the river roared, swollen with the rain of the day before, freezing to the touch. the world had become a mess of orange death, with every leaf and branch and tree closing its life for the winter. a pause in time. a pause as momentary as the fox's glance. I held my breath at the sinking of this moment and exhaled. the color of my hands flushed with the taint of blood, and I forgot about the sight of the fox's fur disappearing into the underbrush.

in those woods you became a meeting of two points in the distance. you kept running in front of me, turning around to laugh, your hair carried by the wind blowing up the side of a hill that was once a mountain. and it was all I could do to keep up, to not slip on the wet leaves beneath my feet. to discover you had been the words i was always looking for. until then, they had been gasps of breath between sleep and wake. and I was always afraid of remembering the dreams that you came to me in.

but the only person that walked the path was me, wishing for the sound of your footsteps to startle, and to lose your face in the sun as I turned around.

-

you have built the loveliest of traps...

the foundation is tight, you displace your dreams,
let the hallucination of love guide your thoughts,
which bubble up with little help, small talk
of broken promises and ancient gestures. you know it's
not true, but you'll believe it, and you'll
sit in your room, your body alone, a stranger
to the dusk gliding through your windows,
let it fall, become the ghost you speak of, the glow
of ecstasy you possess placed lightly in his hand.

yes, the heart is a cage, but you know this, don't you?
it is buried in the knowledge of movement, hidden amongst
the secrets of the little graces of your limbs, each finger
gliding through the words, as if your hands were made
for this knowledge.

myself? I get lost in the words, enjoy the lie
for the truth it becomes, and make mistake after mistake.
the love I created disappeared, the white light in the face
of a somnambulist, and the need to destroy it is
the calamity of my conscious life.
but in my waking sight, when you were near,
I did love you, at least there is that.

the curling spines
of hospitals,
derelict and septic,
kindle and char,

the cities spin in their
black dawns, shiver at
the curious eyes searching
from sewer grates,
we trip (the light)
on fantastic steel,
our wayfaring hands
hold the rope, swing
into the sea, swiftly,
softly, as alone
as the first astronaut.

I am a disappearance
the slow kind, the forgettable kind,
lost in woods, shouting
up to birds, pines, snow
and dark whites,

like how invisibility
is your memory, kindled in
our costs of heart
and lovely mistakes, majestically
crumbling walls and towers

call out over trees, arrows
fly in heat and air,
I jump to catch them
but only cut my hand, and
say to myself, it is only fair.

They should stay
and let
their islands glow,
the softest little

piece of earth,
soil black and rich,
their hands deep
beneath the

chimes of holy winds
and their days marked
by the fleeting
and the light,

the fleeing from
the light.

...

we mark our joys,
avoid death and lovers,
and we are
rich in the salt
of their lips.

we suffer like a quiet witness
hands washed in salt, callused under
strokes of sun,

and in the springtime locked away,
we come to turn keys inside ourselves,
pick secrets to die for,

but we are notes, afraid of one another
letting the drum move us gently,
like some coral ocean, awash in holy wood,

marked upon hall doors, upon
our own lives lived in what
could of been something vain,

something proud, a letting go
of a memory never found, but
a solid piece of brass in the heart,

and if we take our place in line,
deny the loves that move our time,
trapped sideways, clumsy and ugly,

we become the wretched, the brutal hopeless
and are devoted to terror, the fear
of the brass among dark strands of hair,

I will not be defeated, I will walk in
the woods, become a savage, live
for a metal found in fingertips,

and lay softly in trenches, dreaming
of wolves awake, motionless,
in a mirror of moonlight.

As somebody once said to me, I will continue to lead a private life.