Jordan, come back home.
Those people are crazy dude
Rocky Mountain high
standard rain drops plummet down
the old caress of concrete
embedded in memory
(there is a fire in a park outside the city beneath the bench in the soil)
something emblazoned across the mind,
like a scar buried under legal bound
(we fell in love in that flame within the camera you stole)
in some way
the heart is torn open
indigo bunting and swallows
tatter the bleeding sky.
shade, slow enveloping;
earth at my feet;
it is winter.
the road is glistening with snow
two days old, stretching out.
I wait by the screen door
drowning memory impatiently
with toes across the carpet.
Crickets gestate in the early dawn,
In the grand scheme of things it is most important to make noise thats what we do get to come home and scream we make noise noise screaming we make in the glistening grandscheme of things we make noise if you don’t like the noise you make change the noise you are making bleeding spiraling thinking spinning witchcraft noise we are making in the innocent noise of noise
remember. remember that there is always a piece of yourself
worth thirty pieces of silver
always your self
thirty pieces of silver
Follow the heart beat
learn the movement
the blood taste pulsating
stand. Stand Up
heaven touching earth
the space between.
baby born reciprocal
born reciprical: peering into ourselves through epiphany, stardust, the balancd
spiralic planes dancing concentric:balancing light: balancing shade
Behold, Behold the majestic,
tranquility majestic within
behold, the majestic tranquility
of of OF
the majestic tranquility of yourself
I and the dreams begin, haphazardly like ramshackle Japanese makeshift cartoon door frames shuttering against each other in the wind of moths.
she awakes, open eyes and breathing like the rain adorning her horns of ivory, lake mountains and cast iron memories. To each their own.
and then the sunrise appears and with it the remembrance; bones pecking at the desert ceiling; holding on to the sand with crab-shell scuttle, the basement of contrition, opening, revealing, pressing onward, boats drifting back again.
she steps out of her oatmeal linen sheets in the morning sun like a melody from childhood and the grass burnt with sun of the newborn. she is light everywhere.
1. Autumn, and with it the dead fruit bloody with the life of yesterday, spilled over, awake through the leaves, the apples, the fallen piecemeal, people strolling through the yellow memories of childhood; sepia toned against the decayed umber shadows in their complacency. The raw earth, through tones of yellow, red and bone harvest speaks of flesh and the closing rhythm of the sun; staccato of the moon. The air pleads for ice.
2. The young man stands on street corner concrete dreams coercing the pale earth of his heart; aquamarine desert at sunrise. The scabs of the city writhe, scrape by with the blaring of car horn, muffler spoke and wheel; everyone moving. The moon and the ancestral star stare down wide-eyed over the neon emblazoned night; his heart is weeping, peeled back, horn shredded his own hands owning the scraping tool. Concrete dreams covering the pale earth of his heart; ocean over the desert at sunrise.
two men finely dressed
for each other take their time
stepping past photos of middle america.
on the wall hangs a photo of a man
with no front teeth . his daughter
wipes her eyes in the doorframe of a trailer.
the two men move away considering each other.
their coattails dripping rain water across the floor.
two lovers stand facing away from the walls.
they bicker gently over which room
to enter first. she is much prettier than him.
he must have a heart of gold or pockets lined with it.
there is no other way she could love him, not with all that
someone has just farted wearing 200 dollar
cowboy boots in portland.
Every man in this town wears grey.
the women flirt with their eye glasses
like old maid librarians cooking
single meals in single pans
late at night waiting for the phone to ring.