By the kiss of your carcass’d memory, half realized. The other splint of me will not ruin its current grip on this—the now, the part still being digested. My city just found you. Every alley ends up stinking. We were no exception to this rule. Just as an inhale forgets a certain scent, the carpet over time will lose my footprints. We indent moments, do not receive medals for it. Anyone with an ache can cry over this.

And no to my undoing, so let it be done. How one gets to where standing is not near the beginning of what I have to say. These stupid hearts. We let them talk to birds. True fools do not need audience to follow through with acts. A wise man lets a crowd eat dirt and applaud the taste; oh earth you in my teeth dusting up gums. Add no to this equation. Hems of you unraveled, the better to make good of scrap metal gone soft. Give guitar good battle. Hum an incline into the hand thumping a thigh, while there are more summers to go. A good measured bass I hold you and nothing; I stalk big and nothing; to bump shoulders with the past and nothing; to be never what you think. Actions that bleed through the paper, onto the desk. What have you lost for me lately?

Arms lose sight of duty, become just things to swing. Tundra thunder reflexes, drum stick ticks pretty, keeps a beat. I had a page of you quiet, barely a margin to speak of and covers to cling the warmth of day to. The hope that stands on head, neglect feet. There is a part that prays for danger, to know the wrist that pushes food to us, who leashes our lips into cyclone drifts of speak. My dear space junk I fall for it. Dancing for a heat that has nowhere to go—the gutters remember, the tongue tethers string. A gnarled me gone, crushing up pastimes like pills into dust a shrug could knock away, and does. Anthems of this mouth on cage, your middle ladder let me climb. The conversations on tape, the shit that happens and proves nothing, the characters slid into, a little better our shadows to the thumbs of trees, to the garage we said goodbye in, to the banisters for rot then replaced. You and your grass. Some options just stand to be looked around.

In the gas station of my hometown I heard my name and hesitated with turning around—we are always in a state to be seen. My hands were full. An old friend. The rum still in his eyes while we do the collapseable hug and keep moving. To class be you, to travel be me. I have a moment to say, I used to be this place. You cannot really lie about where you come from. You cannot hide a foundation behind your back, cannot twist your way east and call it for good. There is a little spit left in the instrument that you can do no more than smell. I recognize this little path for I wore it into existence. I turned your headlights dead.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 22nd, 2008 at 9:20 pm and is filed under writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.