do you ever get the feeling that all is lost, that we're back pedaling
trying to reclaim it? yesterday we had an art life. today we don’t want to own it. we don’t want to own up to the fact that we live to die, die to live each and every endangered moment. ex-pats of indentured servitude living life on the margins undamaged, wildly imaginative desperate, unconditionally free. we, my love, are the oxymorons all that is you and me. down the road of wreckless dreams
running in place after me, after you running so hard i cannot see the blinding light brilliant blameless blazing like flames burn in hell with me the pounding, angry hell of wretched passion a hell called love a hell we cannot harness surrender, i hear you think surrender, i repeat and in the repetition i release the fear, the threat. i look into those hazel eyes the light ablaze blameless when you dynamite my hardened exterior exposing all of me. i want not
do not want what you give me to think about there are no consequences no conclusions the white, the black, the pattern of love, the colors... the longing why do we forget? the soprano down on 12th street unleashed the firestorm.
she sucked all the oxygen from the room filled with despondent artists seeking redemption from self denigration, despair, uncertainty and chaos. you must look into her eyes, hold that gaze and do not waver. the turbulence unbearable, the intensity, the burn of years confessing all but love that sat in an unopened box waiting to be claimed. we were fearless companions in the name of art, excess and social justice. oh but for the night of splendor when we touched the hunger fathoms deep as if we would die of starvation when our plates were full the curtain of torrential rain as the wind shear strengthened fire whirls exploding, darting about aimlessly. compensation for obliteration of all things known and unknown. do not look back, do not turn around to see the carnage. that is what we told ourselves because it seemed we could not bear the loss as we watched the dissolution, as if we would lose everything, lose it all. our lives, our loves, our freedom, our history as confidantes in a reckless and morally incomprehensible world. we watched as it all burned up and found among the charred remains the box. Tracing the lines to Orly Airport
baggage gone missing $200 in my pocket, two months across the lonely continent. So tell me, where does the time go? Thirty years, another opus stripped bare of non-essentials. There are no fictions only roads that lead to impasse. Or the rotary so notorious it circles endlessly, the mind unyielding. I am the architect of my dreams I am floating, iridescent on the necklace of the sea, the horizon wavers in the distance unconditional without intention. I am fearless at the center of truth. They never tunnel to the surface
and if they do, you don’t hear them grunt and slither back through the soil drum heavy mounding nomadic obsessive-compulsive ravenous bio-mass eaters, pheromonal. Can’t get rid of the bloody things wrecking fantasies about art and risk, about timelessness and real intention. There's nowhere to go when you realize you've already been there before. happiness is superlative
an exaggeration of a far superior state of mind presence among the timeless spontaneous remission of future past in the now that is always preferential if not presidential with or without the paper money I stand before you defenseless
in an empty room some place I’ve never been before. Your lips are moving but I hear the rush of sang chaud. Hidden thoughts ricochet, the ones you had yesterday in the narcotic haze of twilight. There is no tomorrow tomorrow but the moment is slipping away. That is all we’ve got, you remind me, all we ever had. You disarm the silence. short was the distance between bedroom and bath
long the hand that struck me confined to porcelain the water lukewarm turning rose a razor of light cutting a swath through the wavy glass pane cracked from another episode of rage and redemption i did not beg for release ass out, all attitude, a tongue of shank my fortress, relentless the syllabic barrage i would have asked for more but the click of heels on the black and white tiles retreated |
AuthorWriter first. Archives
September 2020
Categories
All
|