magnetic poetry

Super 8

I've seen the beauty  of evasiveness.

That pure lack of intensified delight. 

Always leaving our tongues

leading us to something half dark,

half human, with all the push and pull left in tact.

And maybe this time you fade to black; 

the soft grain consumes my field of vision or I look to my left for just one second. 

Maybe this time the black will give the deepest pleasure: the severing of the stomach or a cut to an ocean view. 

Mass media.

Heartbeats crowded Boston

and they mistook it for a bombing. 

Two killed, or was it three?

No, two found purpose,

sending their heartbeats ablaze,

magnified by the crowd. 

Now you won’t glaze over any more massacres. 

They all became red pins on a map. 

On their knees, they built landfills of rushed guilt. 

Today, hundreds were sorry

because their heartbeats caused an explosion,

People crowded Boston

and war raged on. 

For S, with love.

She had a pleasure in stealing flowers and catching fish just to return them to water. It was those moments that also had her blood pumping harder, making itself present. In these moments, she was left with the confirmation that she was a body. Her presence undeniable, she could touch the hearts of others like herself and only hope to bring the same realization to them that she so frequently discovered. But, as most things do, the moments would pass. Her body would go back to equilibrium and wait for another taste. 

In the spring time, she found poppies sprouting from her wrists. But every time she wept to water them, they would begin to wilt. So she made a bouquet of orange every night, giving her house the color it lack and the fulness it could not do without. The neighbors would look in amazement at the flowered house; the poppies bursting through windows and consuming the lawn. People began to walk up and ask

                                        Can we pick some?

and she would say 

                                         Yes, yes. 

In the winter, the poppies left as all living things must do. But, the people kept talking, telling stories of the girl who had brought color to the loneliest of days. In fact that her house, draped in orange glory, made headlines. So her scars never stopped sowing seeds and her tears never brought floods. 

Magnetic.

For breeze may flower a genius. 

Always worrying, we see man,

god or glass-

brilliant in night. 

too involved.

I am concerned that everything has measures. Our touches are quarter notes and our kisses are slurs, blending melodically. I can never decide if I should feel fortunate for looking at simple gestures and objects romantically. Half of me wants to think I am doing simplicity a grand gesture. The other half is the reality of a morning after a good night’s rest. I’d like to meet an artist who sleeps well at night, one day. I wonder what their hands would look like. 

eyelids.

some pictures with quotes. going to Oregon tomorrow. ∆