11:36pm älvsjö

standing neat under the autumned wine sky
and held under stiff wool as the only option
of nothing else to do

rain could fall in drops or in sheets
and still there would
be nothing else to do

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before my hands could recognize yours

before this shore was torn
from the sun and the moon,

before my hands
could recognize yours,

here is where the thread of the day
blends with the stitching of the night,

where the earth covers herself
with oceans of grass and tides of echos.

like the way the snow recognizes
the early winter wind,
like the way the water
recognizes all things in turn:

hold my hand
now
remember
we were here
when the world first was born.

who are you when you are ruminating at 2am

and there are other deadly things whispered
in the still of late and early night.

such as these sermons that prattle
on like pebbles down a rocky fall,
goaded on
and on
and on.

so i etched into the
yet untouched cavern of
my skull: a reminder.
i am not a pretold story
i am not that which could be measured

not the footprints or the echos
or the faint chalk dust outline
you traced in my sheets
i am not something which is accounted.

this hour will change, and
even the color will fade
as light waves stretch and
we forget to count the seconds.
the I is the woven thread,

dye me now
and count my bones.

we can be everything the moment
says we should be
instead.

habitat3

how long is the ringing
how long the hour
when carpet threads finally unwind?

there is interest in acquaintance
like how will i pair my silence
with his
or the length of his pause
with the second frozen by his eye?

who is here who can be witness?
who is here who
can let these things fall away?

who is here who can tell me
where to pry open the etched
out dovetail joining

and see how the sun rises anyways?

habitat2

i can bring back yesterday
in a breath of august wind,

but
i leave with my dreams
and now, rebuild myself with them.

like tightening the screw on
millions of old joints.
i am only loosed laced together.

every cigarette tastes old now,
and even the trees are sighing now.
light and space in the head rush
and i only rush
to feel earth again.

even the moon is tired now.
even the fall will fall now. for,

i reside only in my dreams
built in-between
fingers and calloused eyes.

habitat1

riding a slow escalator within the
smells of rubbed out grease
and it is clean, still,
in acidic fluorescent lights
tiles of primary
red blues and greens

no one ever taught me that life would be so gentle when it became so dark and cold and we all huddle away from one another, pilots in our brains navigating our way but first

letting this shared space be a respite from what the shared space is.

i can remember trails in the deciduous woods like suggestions of erased lines
invisible shadows that suggested use and love

and habit

i can feel such trails now, though tiles hide them underneath constructed surface and sheen.