Foreword:
Holes are sinking spots where the ground was once
stable and possibly firm-
or else, gashes from external blows.
A definition without destination.
Distinguished: Moon Face
Eating moonlight, bathing my teeth
in luna, breathing bugs,
spread hastily in the sparse, twitchy lawn, my
human limbs and hair invisible from space.
The tea of polite, unhappy myths
in my stomach, in my cracked voice lifted
temporarily by song and sunk under its own weight;
The sound of my song thudding to the earth
drowned the sound of its own ascension.
Like the color blue in an old graveyard
and the life of a hill kept secret
under my tremulous corpus
combined,
one thing after another sent
messages that wouldn't let me run amok internally, in peace.
There was too much quiet;
there were too many wrong options to take.
Once there was nothing to it.
One thoughtless night after another.
Some people have the luck.
Intermission: The Play-Doh Song
Like some fusion, different colored Play-Doh
pressed together as one, near one another
in groups; leaving a piece of itself
behind in the other, after separation.
Could it be possible to switch
so completely? Or will equilibrium manifest,
and each mixture keep the two as equals, or
allow this blending? Monochromania in
such a small play area, when there are so many
others wanting their share, their turn to
set it on fire and watch it char but not burn,
dissolve the salt on their tongues, destroy in
the dirt, lock away forever in a container
which may allow it to dry out or be kept
without fulfillment forever.
Damn, Play-Doh is entendric.
There is too much joy. There is too much irony.
There is a lot of ironic joy.
Some mushy stuff and foreign words:
I made an admirer out of time,
who suddenly has all my attention.
We are in love, we can't let one another go,
I can't forget it, it keeps me where I am
and warns and threatens me
(violent pig-sucker).
But it allows me dreams, lovely sounds,
and appreciation for that which is worthy of beauty.
(That, which is worthy of time and
cannot have it anyway.)
The mirror of kiss, memory of what I
could not seek enough of; color theory in your
eyes, the senses giving flesh to the vocabulary context
of sensual.
The mind fails as my greatest gift.
In a world without my a priori timidity
I would have what I want and the stargazing too.
We trade off what we want for what comes
for free, without risk, without earning and
with eternal, suffocating, atrophying, biting hope.
Death in a meaningless logical equation.
See what good philosophy does a set of sentiments.
History
In spring, there is a legendary green wind
that blows through the old capital ess South in
the states rebellious, wrong, wronged, wronged,
and tired enough of everything but themselves in the end.
A sense of who you are and where you are from
comes on this wind, from somewhere (possibly let
out of a crystal bottle).
It creeps up inside and smacks all with
a smite heard in their heads and hearts
for months and decades afterwards.
To feel it is to know the fortune of martyrs,
without the fame, without the reward,
with secret unknown followers as anonymous as you.
The power to dance closely, to want to;
to learn telepathy or think to people's eyes
what you'd like and fear for them to know.
In the autumn, things die and leave reminders
such as their entire desiccated selves
as painful as first pain, sometimes washed with
enough plain forgetfulness as to resemble Lethe liquors.
But sometimes it isn't enough to dry up
your existence with a little bath in the moonlight.
Conclusion
No matter how much you wish something would die,
a point approaches when you climb out of your hole
and seek out the shelter in someone else's cagey smile.