Some days you write and you just don’t want to share. Some days you breath in and it just isn’t enough so keep it all in, share nothing but how you’re feeling.
That’s worth writing about.
Some days you write and you just don’t want to share. Some days you breath in and it just isn’t enough so keep it all in, share nothing but how you’re feeling.
That’s worth writing about.
Journey by moonlight
As it spills through the highway
So many boulders
Yet,
The river finds it’s way.
A fallen leaf-
Unmoving
Around it
The water ripples.
A blemish on the mirror
But the river isn’t moving
A fire on it’s bank
Now in the water
The smell of burning leaves.
Briefly a broken mirror
Then-
Submerged branch
Flying leaves and reflections
And over it flows a river.
We are a family of collectors. We have diverse interests and collect many things- perfume bottles, magazines from the soviet union, yellow pages for cities that don’t exist anymore. Even seeds. In the summer we often catch fireflies and lost flowers. The flies are pinned up in memories, the flowers in books- so many of them. All for a personal library that began decades ago. Yellow books that’ll never be used, no one can write over flowers and perfumed paper.
So much for memories I guess, but you won’t me writing on those pages either.
All I remember
The sound of tea
being poured
While wool
Disguised as fog
climbs up
closing the windows
The tick of the clock
interrupts.
Bird cages become terrible things if you think about them. They seem to come from a ancient manors covered in dust and with white drappings over furniture. When empty there’s a soft melancholy that comes with rusted, black bars that might break if you pushed hard. A swing is just more lonely when there isn’t a bird on it.
Putting a bird in won’t makes things much better. I’m not one for heavy handed metaphors but it’s hard to image any contentment coming from anything that could claim the entire sky, being restricted to a tiny cage. It’s damnation. Insanity for birds and condemning man to be a callous and unfeeling thing, amused by petty, pretty suffering. Color the cage with your own horrid indifference, the bird might not have much time for you either.
My neighbors either poets or masters of atrocity have gone a step further. In their grotesque tower that looms over the entire neighborhood they got a cage on the highest floor. Rather than put any birds in their cage, they’ve found themselves a better metaphor- they’ve caged light. In a corner they’ve wasted for a concrete, meaninglessly stylized balcony that no one can reach they’ve put a solitary light bulb that’s lit for no one in particular.
In fact I don’t think anyone would bother to look that far beyond the trees, street lights and other squalor all the way up a rich mans house. Maybe they think it looks good no matter how futile; another ornate holding for us to want. I’m not sure they’d take much notice of it themselves so there it glows, in an uninterrupted darkness. Unseen and meaningless, trapped above us all.
Heavy from his feast
Through 3 years of letters-
Swaying silverfish.
I like the way you wear the weather
Raining down the intersection
Between want and wonder.
If I killed all the clocks could I keep you?
Who would have thought, such long and lonely roads
Between your eyes and skull.
Trail after trail
The joy of ironing
Your own mind
Wake at a wrong bus station.
The price of
Sweet summer sleep