Feb. 5th, 2008

blueimber: (Default)
Blue. Not sky blue, or midnight blue, not navy blue, sea blue, not silk blue or blood blue, no, the shade could only be described as the kind of blue that a lense shutter reflects back, brilliant at one place and dark in another, varied, swirled- and all at once one single shade of the most essential blue. The kind of color you could fall into and spend an eternity within, blue which could make a world that you’d fall in love with, blue that you would settle deep down into like a favorite pair of jeans or that you could uncomfortably touch again like the reminder of a bruise. The very definition of blue-

Those were the color of her eyes. They changed a million times as the light filtered down through the trees that were nothing but branches in this late fall as the sun came up. Late fall, but cold enough to know that old man winter was coming around the corner at the end of the block, and would soon be upon us. Breath hung in the air like icicles and fell to the ground, making little twinkle noises as it broke upon the pavement, but of course, you had to listen close for it, for it was not audible to the regular ear, only to the ear of those touched in the way that writers and poets and painters are, touched in the way that the people who seek truth above all else are, in other words, that you were willing to believe that breath could break, and then that was the noise that would thus ensue.
blueimber: (Default)
((I can't remember if i posted this here when i wrote it. 12 pages. Enjoy!))

imagine there's no heaven

once we painted pictures
where our eyes should have been
and never could we seem to find them
for always there was just reflection in glass.

tonight i look to the bottom of the glass to see
if i am walking the line

the line the line the line
reminds me of
that fragile connection to
what happened september 11
oh how all i was searching for the line

else in our lives
the white is sometimes washed
grey almost
at the edges
as if there were nothing really pure in the world
but i see it in the undisturbances
pure comes along the rim of a jar
a flicker of shadow
and inking of line

to make days pass faster
before i can make the leap and take my fall
i surround myself with beauty
soon too i shall grow flowers
and make once more
those wonderful things in ovens
risen and hot
the metaphor lost on my
domestic self

you cannot always get what you want.

sometimes air hangs heavy off the line
and we hear the woman bring it in
across the lot from this new life

she askes me if it is worth it
and i tell her that of course it is

and we have this dialogue
my little girl and i
small talk in small voices
like whispers of the friends we were when
all there was was the moon

sometimes in this life you find
your twin born off from somewhere far
from where you were
but realize
you are exactly differently the same

so i live with her
and her
we all being the 'she's who make it this happen
this happen

buddah he smiles on it
zen in my garden of computers and paint brushes
my Jerry on the wall
giving his elastic smile with an interesting juxtapositioning in his hand
the papers of love
upon which are curling the gentle smoke of the word

the word

the word has lost meaning and sometimes i think
that i cannot speak it anymore
rare moments of clarity break down
into lucid wet paintings which
never seem
to be of anything at all
why is it
that he can paint it all one color
and yet i
who have such beauty seen
cannot even get a color
to express that violent feeling

((that was you in the shower
those were your eyes
it was me there

it was us
don't you remember?
and i fear my love is falling all apart again
all over again
as if as if as if
the bells ring the knell
and never
i whisper this, you see
i am already afraid
that it is lost
are you..
lost in all?
this tide
leaves me empty
oh where
has the wind
begot you?))

i place the steps to the delicate dance
upon the flooring of my soul
it is again
all mirrors
don't break
the glass
if shattered
like this love
it can never be rebuilt
makes you question
solemn irony
of once broken dreams all
in the matter of arangement
of how the pieces fall...

where does the word fall upon the
hapless ears of a
befuddled world?

this language is lost to me
it makes no more sense
and sometimes
i do not even understand myself

i surround myself with beauty

women are weak creatures in their passions
they come in to the counters
and talk to the ladies
all in black
who women deem
sit supreme
upon thrones of beauty
in judgement of
the ugly
they will plead before the bar
for justice and youth
with the contents of their wallets, souls
they come and plead
never once looking at themselves
and for what they ask
they touch their face
not looking
and motion to the mirror
never breaking eye contact
observe the mirror
remember alice
but instead their swan motions
as they deny what appears in the glass
and beg
for the salve
that could make beauty and light
in the soul

i don't deny what appears in the glass
and always
i hold it out to them who come
thinking me a judge
and finding me

a teacher

((sometimes i wonder if i would have
that last dinner
and be the woman
fluttering at his side
crying into his cup
when devils pierced his side))

but no
not denying the glass
almost always the glass delivers the line
raw upon the edge
a seam of blood
or perhaps
handed down
word of our departure from who we were

young ladies growing up

"in the room
the ladies come and go
talking of

sometimes i forget
yet remembering
sometimes the glass is only the surface under which
we have been denied

what did i write?
that it was like
being stuck in the sky
falling back into the water
of our lives
and being able to breathe again
that is how
suffocation feels
the lack of drowning

so is that how it was to be for us?

just like it wasn't blood

oh yes.
it wasn't blood
but remember
we thought it would be.

bleed the bad things out against the skin
until all the world was new again



wasn't it the end too
of that forefather?
and didn't he
become famous in his own right?

keep your wooden opinions to
we are not sick.

yes. not sick at all.

When the truth is found

When the truth is found
it will be revealed
that he never had a sweetheart
and he never had a home

always it served us
to listen quietly

for the orchestrations that
illustrate this life
lead on in many ways
but never let you really

hear the beat
as if god was playing baby grand
and all you could really hear
was the sway of his shoulders
as the reverie grips him

but he finally found a home

fell the fabled walls of jehrico
those trumpets
that sometimes you can hear
above it all

sound it
sound it
for we are ready
with extra water bottles
and batteries
to get us through the nights

all of my love falls around november

All of my Love Falls around November
ivory leaves and
beautiful crisp rose deadheads of color
our brilliant blue skies

shall we all meet in
the autumn?

oh it will be something to behold
this fall

and this time
when it happens
who will be behind the stars that catch us
as we fall up into the sky?

oh for the fall brings fireworks
and determines slowly in its right
how harsh our winter will be

will the snow drift us in until we must
cozy down and build a fire?
shall it all be rain and ice
where our heels slip out from under us
after achillies had taken his spill
and leave us on pavement
as nothing more
than sadness
and blood?

we pray to leda and
her swan down
for cozy thoughts of
the what could be
should ever
there again be
dangerous dangerous love.

he knew with his indifference before
he cast this about my neck
oh he knew
and to some degree
i bent the slender
so in all it would fit
the tighter
silver clasp'd chain around
to keep my soul
and thoughts
directed singularly
even when
i could not find the words.

((several days i had to break free of it
because the throes
gripped too hard
and i got bruises
i told them it was abuse of the love
they knew my secret smile
did not ask further))

Pianos sound the track of our footfalls.


gentle rain across the melody of life
sometimes she said
and i thought the whole world in that moment would
wash away.
all in our
an entire force in mourning
for the economy
is that all there is
to the world?
is that
all there is?

each day i break against the storm as
sunlight in the waking hours
for although the wind
blows through me like violins
it is the piano of
sun speckled clouds
within the seed of the sky
which prevails
as the resonance to which
we accord our lives.

we accord our lives to bus schedules
and try to make our ways home.

so it is that circles engender in
our gyre.

a deep breath and the chest sinks
proudness struggling
he is crippled and old
ah but the ladies promise youth!
won't pride step up
to the bar?

((She stamped her feet.
i remember this
when they cornered her and asked about

the jeans rolled up
and stuffed into the folds
of her purse
she stamped one yellow heel'd foot
making the motions
to either
or run
the girls placed their bets on her
but i
smiled silently
and knew that
double oh nine would take down
the bull))

all of it related and none of it tied together
but what if i gave you the key
of the between lines?
would you be able to find the secret alley
and claim your birthright'd treasure?
oh we talk of
misplaced youths and trusts
do we really know where it all had gone?

there are none of us who fit perfectly
because how can you possibly hope
to organize a puzzle this big
you can clearly see the table it is all laid out upon?

once, in our youth and childhood
we had two pictures going once
half the box had half of one puzzle
and the middle of another entirely
all summer was spent bowed over the small shelf
even when the lake called out its loon cry to us
at the moonlight
we sat and turned the pieces
mademioselle does borders
until i had
a simple outline of one world
colored in entirely with
centers of another

and not one clear picture
of either.

like songs without notes

you can never reconcile the image of the maker
with the story that unravels in your mind
always are the half truths of reality and
all the world in what you fantasize to be free

aristotle would have told us to get free

and the web of the words
falls away from me
as the world gives away back to the fog of life
because i thought perhaps i had learned something.

something to be said if
you read me

((indeed, she said
what could come of any of this?
no one hears what you cry in your corner in the dark anyways.

they hear
but most
choose simply to listen to what has been told
and then
cipher the curd from the whey
they wait for the dream to separate
for perhaps they wish to make butter
or perhaps
they just want to know that the undertow has sufficed
and shall draw its venom away from the surface of the
before they wade
into the fray


but don't you still hold
that it would all
sound better
in french?

would the language make any difference?


no. you would still not understand the words.
and this would be even less than nothing.

ah but
at least if it were in french
an excuse could be seen for why no one
gets it.

i am tired of excuses.

then why persist?

sometimes madness overflows.


yes. if only i knew french.))

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