Word Knots

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Span of index, arms weakened

Rambles upon wrinkles, I am

Pressed between Earth and

Air…..Flow upon my continent’s

Systems, scattered over ranges

 

Puddles flirt with thirst, Lakes,

Mock the drought of my

Throat, Reservoirs dribble…

For My body is a gathering

Of harvests from the oncoming

Winter, the divining rod dust

Only Scent lingers, eternal pine

 

I look to the snow, Taste

The season, a melted past of

Garnished greens, grays, and suns

 

Hearty robin, ever alive, steam

Floating from her beak, Nest

Built of water, sticks, and mud

Her Feathers, wisdom’s movement

Lay upon my words, a slow worm

Snagged from frosty grass

Scrawled black upon the field

Desert letters made of tree knot

 

Symbols smeared / slants of rain

The blue, blue liquid cleanses

Meaning, shot out of innards

The words, worms always

Cut in two, the clay I am

 

My eyes, lids nearly glued shut

Begging for preservatives

Or the relieving thought of

A connection to moisture

That will keep words moving

My wet hand through dirt.

Pain rides up between thumb

Finger, Palm and Lifeline.

My arm is silent, swollen.

 

 

 

Language is oil now, dug

Dug, deep under my nails

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I See Behind The Glance

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I see behind the glance

The smell of hair

My nose dug deep

Kisses graze off

 

Missed deserts drink

Daylight, a fear

Nighttime, a place of fibs

Soft hidden in the harsh

 

I have no sight

Beyond what I feel

Fingertips wander

Within contact, silence

 

It’s not a word

For those, who run

And run, and ruin

Wetness drops, then

 

A host of wishes

The sky is too full

Planets glide, as

Satellites grab, desperately

 

I’ve a thousand looks

A tune for everyone

That includes nobody

I say nothing, as it should be.

 

I see before the glances

Scent lingers, now

I dig my face, deep

Inside the pillow

 

Touching

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When you don’t touch for the first time, you never have to touch for the
last time. But, all the touching in between those two creates a world of
its own. Next time, go ahead and touch throughout. No matter how long it lasts.

There Are Days Of Longer Daylight

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There are days of longer daylight

When time can’t figure out what direction it travels.

A lost light, which cannot heal, as it hurls itself forward

A movement through something, changing

Abandoned. It cannot come back or go home.

 

We build nests with thoughts, to further

Our grip on movement, creating, extending,

Daylight beyond the planet’s wobble

Building structures deep into the backswing

Back and then back again

Comforting our ego, the id out of control.

Still, we are afraid to go. Where else,

Does one go if not mingling with the sky?

 

A Trip of returning to yearning

Our haven, a little heaven that discomforts

The hidden specter the day yanks at

Drags our taste for life onto the welcoming mat

A home, We sip sweet flavored rum

Grinning with a separation in our teeth

The little tiny thing that holds us back

The fear is found in the haunting smile

Kisses are heated lip upon lip, sweet rum

They are open for debate, scented

Sweat, searing into sugar moistness

Lasting through a fragile daylight.

 

The Sound Of Listening

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The soundness of judgment is composed from the silence of listening.

The Ripples Are Confused

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The river runs grey today

Echoing the action of clouds

They move, as it runs

We are underneath, on the banks

 

The river is smiling at us

This leads to a flood of sky

Movement, on the way

The flow can’t be trusted

 

We are on the coast

Our houses hidden inland

The moss, on the roofs, built

Of Branches reaching overhead

 

We dip our hands in the cold

Our lawns, the frozen current

Left to grow gray, abandoned

A false green, wanderlust concrete

 

The ripples are confused

The river is bent under will

We are dams and dikes

The grey is always today, always was

 

The sky brushes against our skin

The river seeps, never asleep

We pave the damp ground

Our Roads are wet ribbons

 

Tar bubbles and pebbles

We magnify our stagnancy

Tires circulate, escapeless

Rocks embedded in tread

 

Our faucets are rainfall

Foothills filter our lives

The stream, captured, moves

We are but ripples, confused

We Awaken In The New Dry Day

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You are like the missing rain

Only the mist has been caught in the trees

A thousand kisses fall to the ground

Mud has formed at my feet

I am on my hands

Tracing your lips

 

Wooden steps support me

The world is on stilts

Rivers run brown, slow to the touch

Roofs burn in the sunshine

The leaves fall too early

Reservoirs lie abandoned

 

I reach for the one green leaf

It is dust, your body

The rain is trapped within your mouth

Earth is the only blue, like bodies

My hand moves across skin

The new desert

 

The fruit opens the sound

A suckling in its own juices

A bed, with sheets built of seedlings

Which, I lie, in the wet spot

Seeping into the mattress

I pull the sheets under me

 

We awaken in the new dry day

Beyond Words

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She vibrates on trails high above Tunnel Falls, where lakes colder than winter wait. No one sees her, only a wake follows. Her apparition is enough to remind her of words left behind—words which cut into her skin—permanent wounds. Not the simple healing of scrapes and abrasions. Once a word drills itself into your life, you bleed forever. She searches here, among wooded trails that crisscross, meet, and intersect. Quiet is somewhere. Quiet is nowhere.

Death is a question for her, an inquiry that begs for no answer. Stillness responds to no one. An explanation would calm chaos, quelling the tallest crashing waves. It’s an impossibility isn’t it, what she looks for? The death of words only occurs in total silence, where no heart beats, where no nervous system hums, beyond the vibration of ghosts, beyond the ability to haunt, as words have a habit of haunting.

Forest trails never end, no matter how many times she wanders off the path, wandering away from the past, where snow pretends to sing a soothing song and branches of the biggest Douglas Firs fill dead nostrils with desire. The past never ends its stretching out into the future, before her, built of stories, false, with a showering of truth, sprinkled by well-planned words. This is the story she roams within.

Stories have an ending, but not to ones who write them and certainly not to characters who live within. All they will ever say and have ever said are living as worms within her blood. She can’t take a knife to herself and end it all, for she is already not alive, reborn into death. Words bounce along the roots and rocks, threatening to continue beyond.

She refuses to come back inside. She transmits no warmth and toes are chilly to the touch, and her mouth, an ice-cold kiss. The out-of-doors is embraced, an undependable theory she must fashion—interpret—words, bend them to her will, as others shape them into weapons. She searches for quietness, outside paragraphs, chapters that cut deep into her outer shell. She writes, when the rain turns to snow and her body is carved upon in longhand. It is not the coldness of the body stilling the reading, the fleshy soft housing trapping the soul, but a home where quiet lies and roving ceases.

I Want To Tell Those Eyes

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The window rattles every time a door is closed.

They are being closed all the time.

I place my hand on the window to stop it from rattling.

Unfortunately, this brings me to the point of being able to look outside

My hand tries to block my view, but I fail

I see out, where there is no rattle

My eyes meet another’s

I didn’t mean to

I want to tell those eyes that I didn’t mean to look

It just happened.

I’m just trying to hold the window steady

I want to tell those eyes that doors are constantly slamming

shut

I want to tell those eyes how lucky they are

outside where doors can’t be slammed

where windows are not needed

I want to tell those eyes something passionate, clever

That it really isn’t about me, even though it is

That it really isn’t about those eyes, even though it is

That I can live without those eyes liking me, even though I want them to

Another door slams, my hand feels the vibration of the window

I can’t seem to stop the window from rattling

Short Sayings

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I swear someone or something slips me a sentence or two every now and then. They speak to me as much as they speak to you. One word contains whole sentences, paragraphs, and a tumult of emotion. They dance around inside of me, making my heart stretch beyond its limits, beating its way to an understanding. This dance lasts for only a fraction of some unknown non-time, where I get to feel the very limits themselves.

Beauty

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Beauty is not looks, but the ability to look.

Static Leaf

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The leaf dances

Around every corner

Around every thought

Even in the avoided song

 

Now upon the ground

A rush of wind stirs

Hands like autumn

A distant radio is heard

 

Gathered in piles

An invitation to jump

Soft at first, then asphalt

Static, a lover’s whisper

 

Raked bare sidewalks

A desert of cracks

My feet are soft

I sing the same song, continually

 

For the return of Green

Buds of my passion

Birthed in warmth

My ear tickled by rustling

 

They hang onto mothers

A fragile childhood

Bathed in heat

Time is a refrain

 

Slid from my hand, again

I turn my palms upward

Bits and pieces

The staffs are full of tears

 

 

 

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