writers walk

Fri, 10/24/2014 - 22:11 -- caycarr

Location

Doesn't it feel good to touch

the crashing waves the spiral of this notebook forms like a meteor pinballing each star

past where long-forgotten single socks go

against the side of your hand?

 

There are one million more days for searching

and only one day to allow a personified version of “love” to grab you by the shoulders

& say “I’m ready.”

 

So kiss with every firework

until the 4th of july is postponed

Be the fabulous yellow Roman candles

spilling like spiders across the sky:

 

The birth of this nation is one for money &

the priceless honey on your mouth

after that night your two lips turned to tulips in blue baskets is never washing off

because we are too busy lub-dub dubbing for scrubbing.

 

Each heartbeat is hail

pattering glass windows inside an organ

to keep us up all night

with only the fire from our

souls for light.

 

Not since mirrors

have human beings come so close

to facing our fears-

I haven't been living for years

I am embodying.

 

From a numberless age,

the curse of never “liking” only loving”

has been boa-constrictor coiled

around my torso

forcing out Jackson Pollock paintings in spit

 

This is my every-morning-coffee

dripping down the front of my shirt

to for long lost Picassos.

 

This is me falling in love six times a day

& accidentally tracing a Georgia O'Keeffe

my mouth

in an attempt to even begin describing

an endless affection.

Windows on washing machines in laundromats exist

because there is just not a word for some feelings.

 

Living on a “check yes’ “check no” earth

is  the final digit of the expiration date

for the terminally passionate.

After millennia existing in only our star-selves,

being placed in an all-white, all-cement room is a black hole.

See, I was given a set amount of years

before the “check yes” boxes

stopped being building blocks

for the world’s net masterpiece in pencil

& turned into just cubicles.

 

See, for poets,

every receipt is worth a spot in the scrapbook,

the ones fro priceless bliss, a whole page.

Every minute it takes a toll

& I am prepared to pay

Nevermind the Pollocks,

I’m only here for the Starving Artists

feeding off readings for breakfast

“Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits”

And my blood sugar is dwindling.

 

I want nothing more than for your words

to pour over me like sweet champagne

but I wish they were syrup

so they’d stick for ever.

I want to be dressed up your every syllable for soft leather,

every stanza to seek refuge

under my fingernails

like dirt that stays beyond bathing.

 

If the words under this tree

will crawl up &

latch on unsuspected,

I plead to bleed.

 

If the words under this tree

assemble a symphony,

may it be the last hymn I ever hear.

 

If the words under this tree are the tide, take me:
Don’t you dare doubt the ways you make me drown;

 

Blood will always be thicker,

but ink sinks.

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