With Love

With Love

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Spoons

I will lump you out of all these things that you and I call revenge which centerfold the little moments and garbage was misconstrued as love while sound became music. But there are not enough round surfaces to keep our mouths busied and buried by heaping fills of tissue. There has always been a race for who will finish last, for who will see it end. But the eye should look the same from any town now matter how poor it is, and no matter the smog that chokes it down. We run from all the tiny scoops of measured folds, where we were once fat, and where we were once old, and have always been this way. It is carrying the load where weight is compared to density and people become the chocolate that is desired only in moderation. When ones tooth out does itself with flows of angry swollen eyes and stubbed knees You'll see I knew that there was a whole that we blanketed over with the patterned workings restlessness, with endless dribbling questions that are the voids which propel feet over cliffs, and knives into throats. Judging is such an activity that all children learn once they swallow the real words that other children molded out of lips and air, out of none of these and all of them. There is only teas and tables of every degree building itself over itself and around itself so much so that things grow solid under lamps that franklin dreamt of, and the sex that Hue grew rich on. The recipe never existed but it is easier for you to fallow instructions, because your idea of shadows is that they must be left as shadows, and lights be left as lights, and the undiscovered should grow mountains of dust where minds fell asleep and others minds twist and turn like tornadoes meeting deep sea urchins, where tides become hands and rain creeps beneath fingernails. While desk becomes me and lung becomes you, and we close in on each other as you lump us out of this mess that everyone desired, but only in moderation, and that which grew angry all to itself and they defined tranquility as lemonade in a rocking chair since most of us have neither.

1 comment:

Maurice Burford said...

when you do your chapbook, is the format for the poems going to mostly solid blocks of text?

if so, you might want to think about a larger (like 1.5 spacing) space between lines. It's just a little hard on the eyes and straining on the brain. But some poets make if work for them: see Alice Notley's Alma, or The Dead Women & Stephanie Young's Tell The future Off.