Desire in 17 Syllables.

This is what I know:
you will renegotiate
your contract with skin.

The Air Breathes You

From moment to memory to moment, time moves back and forth, taking us with it.

The spark and the seed and the sea. It’s a journey of a thousand words.

Finally, you will find the perfect name, and city, and reason to spill ink onto paper.

All your life: the sky will trace the outline of your body.

The Various Parts of a Loud Noise

Bloodless. A person unfolds
from place to place.

but how many times?

same as to erase, efface, remove

as in a fugue [to explode a theory]
(ideas, culture, etc.) as of juice
a pressing out into words.

in a plain and definite way. a photograph

showing what has happened before.

same as gunpowder.

in proper sequence. 494
through 495 (explicitly)

a feeling not extinct. there should be
no doubt as to the meaning.

obscene

or otherwise.

Statistically Rainwater

half of her photographs are still hidden under the mattress.
the other half have been cut by scissors.

someone should thank whoever
invented smokless candles. and
flammable water.

she walks in barefeet thru pilsen.

i return the mason jar filled with pus to the windowsill.
the ticket stub to the jean pocket.

she comes home talking about the ineffable rainwater.

but this is a joke.

told better by another voice.

Against Exhumed Moleskines

I am stitched
into the fabric
of classic american traffic.

I have my finger
on a map made
from internet debris.

If tonight I find myself
struggling to write my own
attempt at forgiveness.

Then I will find nothing
but my own muscles
trying to lift something
they could never carry.

Theory of Returning Daylight

Perform yourself. Circa this morning
2014. Assembled approximately
after 27 years. More or less erased and
then resketched. Your smooth escape
in and out of your own body.

A jawline of stubble to evoke a carnivore’s
contemplation. A pair of green eyes to express
a pair of sharpened scissors.

Face the wind. The sensation of
falling. Have another drive to work.

Find yourself, once again,
in the middle of the ritual; this is where
you become beautiful.

Have another look at the morning sky.
Don’t use the word: “Asunder”

Use the word: “Blossom.”

Bandage the bleeding sun.

This is the promise of each new day.
That every “good-bye” will become
meaningless.

The Color of Blood in Black Lights

I recognize my shadow in the evening sun. I recognize my voice
in the breeze at dusk. I recognize my hopes in the birds that fly in
and out of sight. In and out of sight. In and out. Like a needle and
thread. Pulling two separate pieces together.

on the Lake

they will remember you for the way you give and give. reflecting the morning light. washing gold to the shore. they will remember you for your summer clothes and the way your fingers curl. in the evening, when you turn so calm and silent. speaking without moving your mouth.

there will be moments when you remind them of their dead. preserving the memory in a fresh water language. words that lift and sink. revive and fail.

and you will turn fluid. as smooth as the years on a calendar.
one after another. made beautiful by repetition.

 

 

Music Journal: “Seasons” by Future Islands

Most of my life has been a personal sort of arithmetic. A type of mathematics designed for a person who prefers imaginary numbers over integers. Consequently, I add postcards to the dashboard of my car and books to my shelves, while subtracting youth and failed loves from my memory. The results haven’t always been clear. But, reinvention is never clear. And who we are is never obvious. Nevertheless, there are moments when we recognize ourselves. The amputated parts and the nostalgia are there with our hazel eyes and our morning coffee. Sometimes, we can taste our own breath. We can hear our own voice. We can feel our name at the precise moment we pronounce it.

Most art, for better or worse, reveals the audience far more than it ever reveals the artist. And, so it is with Future Islands’ new single, “Seasons.” Right from the start, vocalist Samuel T. Herring offers a rain soaked haiku in the voice of a bengal tiger. The image of changing seasons is juxtaposed with Herring’s imploring to a lover. His moan is a sloppy mix of soul and Tom Waits, and completely his own. However, in spite of the first person song writing, the emotional urgency is frighteningly personal. As I listen, I lose sight of Herring, and instead, discover myself. I imagine my feet walking along cracked sidewalks. Dodging rain and my own reflection in windows. I recall every phone conversation that ended before I wanted it to. And the taste of the wet earth on my tongue. I can count every promise I made to myself. Each and every resolution made on New Year’s Eve. I can feel the bubble of champagne on my lips. Teasing me, the way hope often does.

It’s very likely that the “you” that Herring is singing to in “Seasons” is no one other than himself. Indeed, we all wait for ourselves to change. We “break” down. We give up. We “crave” what we once had, but it’s “gone away.” And that is the pain of this song. It’s the pain of  knowing who we are. But only a little bit at a time.

And that is the consequence of living in a world that changes. We can be happy. But only for a little while.

below is a link of a live version of the song:

Dying but Never Dead

One shape becomes another. We are
who we are. But who we are isn’t
permanent. The color of the sunset
is not to be mistaken with the color
of the sunrise. We don’t switch
the ending with the beginning.
But it can be tempting.

It can be tempting to think
we are resurrected. But
we still have our memories.
And we still know the shape
of our body. Even as it slips
away from us.

We are glaciers. Melting
and ripping open the skin
of the earth at the same time.