Ash sky wet glass rain spectacled face sits at the window on a cappucino grey faces pass count off I could do without one two weather awaker colors in boots deep runs water around a girl in the street stands in a puddle winds stronger storm crystal sheen slate street silent
he plays with words he sins he plays with smoke she loves me I love her not trees have meant everything about love since that day with the blossoms took us a picture &fixed our hearts the color of May the tree's white blood each blossom drip the grieving that is love each one a letting go a taking part & poetry the cameraman's trick
Alice's room. Loft and bellow of smoke and sound. Woven density weightlessness of each ashen fiber crossing musical line clothes us in eachother. We enter and for a moment our souls are stitched together, rhythm and breathing, we have become one organism As our sprits respire make that grey dance around us and ask us if we really know where the body stops and the world begins But against all of that something so humble, grounded with no aspirations to that kind of knowing: a rug Born as some modest brown its true color comes from its worn years patiently waiting as our lofted selves return to meet the earth catching the smells of ourselves, particles woven into its piles the rug is just a body essence is the lived life the honest stitching of each new love into the heart.
The smoke whirling in your pipe is a text that travels through you and as we hum and pass piece and tangle our mass about the center of Alice's room I'm taken to the fine line pencil tipping the smouldering incense stick It rises, ash clean marks the air above emberheart delicate dust but at a height, it breaks turbulance pulls everyway and our clean thin charcoal stroke yields to the infinite smothering air, everdancing
The charcoal stain of that first smoke is the boldness of Name certainty as we speak and place each word as the pencil takes the page but behind each curve and line lies an empty magic concealed, blotted over As the smoke rises and is washed away Name is lost scattered to a wind the idea is formless from Formlessness every Name was born. Pulling from all space drawn from air's ritual dance a Name is chosen as each scent of ash returns turbid cloud collects density, darkness the charcoal stain of that first smoke is a stroke on a page
Your body --- how you write
Architecture, Ideas: the Imagination in which reside all things lives in the body. And so you describe the cosmos of a cafe, a chamber (of smoke) and these things are as alive as we are, as embodied.
But I feel so divorced from that part of myself. Decapitated, in a way, except the head is what I've kept. You could think it a luxury, to go through the world with so little attention payed to how others see me. And I have bragged! of whole days spent with not even a glance given to my face in a mirror.
Alice talks about how grounding it is, to know that our minds are fused to our bodies. That even the loftiest thoughts can be made to come to Earth. And then she speaks of a kind of consciousness that radiates in all our limbs, a kind of truest thought, honest thought.
I suppose I have been there, but only as I have been intoxicated, by rage and love even. But for that intoxication I never take notice, that my whole aparatus has come together at once; I do not see it until it is over.
on the beach ambersmog blanketing the sky petrol platforms sleeping on the edge of the Earth jeweled like gods in Sapphire and all the rest Grit and grey haze brief nakedness where we live everstill as an engraving
It all seems so unfair, the way I could draw the curves of my first love but not my own face. A menace, I capture from women their bodies, keep them. Maybe they know this and that is the exchange. Do they have me? There again I am oblivious. Oh, what would be right?
I must know my body. I must think with it, wield it, undermine this tyranny of mind. How else could I be fair?
And when I read you, how you live the world with your whole being. I go back to my old poems, how little of touch, of taste is there. I play only with the academic senses; I live. How absurd! How much more there is to have, to soak in through my skin!
The way you write, everything is alive. Everything is in us, and we are alive. That world.
Some softness warm essence taste and the rasp rustling of your cotton thigh upon my ear we met as strangers in California night crisp air still smoke we danced earlier I sold you San Francisco misty glow and placid Berkeley air I wore music like my second skin hoping to seep past some topographic truth of your image But now I wait tepid careful geometry of your body studying your silhouette relief in orange lampglow for a sign you will speak with moistmouth and the curve of your back Your fingers words within my hair I will watch as bluenight and windowbreeze spin earth as you tell me your story then disappear beyond the mountains
The hallway fluoresced along its whole sterile length. I could hear a distant steely buzz Sharee's shoes tapping tile as we filed along this bureaucratic afterthought. There was jazz in this basement college boys at their best classmate Joe Escobar on at ten. Not that we cared. We wore whiskey on our breath we made sure we were late. As that buzz grew warmer I became cool blue dancing all the moves I learned in the book. Music school means you can count the bars and get awfully mad when the sax misses the changes & knowing the heroes from Louis to J.C... You've probably been to Harlem once. Joe wasn't so bad as he tried to translate that obsidian sound He knows those ivories like his own pale fingers and he speaks that ebony language like a native boy. If that sax would have soloed along with the changes, I'd have clapped when I knew that I should Just like white Joe I've studied the classics and learned how to make them my own. And if anyone's jazzy it's rad Sharee. They're rusty brown and mean. But that space didn't have no room for my friend Those phosphorescent bodies were packed up to the door in a coolly lit worship of style. Whose Jazz sounds here? Is it mine, brought out of the books, bought with my college degree? Do I know the whole story? Know all the rules? Those kids didn't even know when to clap but they still lined up to take communion. They didn't even ask. But that Jazz wasn't Sharee's that's for sure they didn't play for her kind She melted into the wall small shadow, piece of night. We left early to beat the crowd. Afterwards, when we sat by the creek on a wooden bench softened by night she confided: "we were the brownest people in the room" I thought: "me? I'm flattered to be on your team"
Guitar case sits on the sidewalk. Homeboy enters. Homeboy paces up and down a sidewalk. He sits upon it before lighting a cigarette. Sad. dejected. He smokes half of it. Extinguishes it on his shoe. Stands up. Picks up the guitar and leaves.
I ran away from Berkeley for the first time in four years, to see the seasons slip. The solstice sunk in Washington. The district's stately marble brazen, blind beneath the highest sun, turned hearthstone wombwarmth of the stillest night. The easy slip of hours with the cheapest beer. Turned moon turned moon to harvest moon; us cradled in the truckbed hiding bottles from the ire of Waleed's pious father. Autumn now in Paris & the first chimney coughs The first night in Ba Tre's apartment: finally alone. I let the windowwings fly in and leave the shutters wide. I bow my breast over the rail to keep the cigarette smoke out & count the windows of the building across Rue Legendre. The glitter of the spitoon street, its monochrome tobacco lanterns drag me back to Berkeley and that starless sky: the first fuck I cared not call love. Nicole & her Newport lips daring me to drink party, noise & sex & shame Her menthol kiss and vomit Berkeley and her endless Fall, every evening mist The slimmest bed scratchpaper walls How with her frame fixed in my fold, I felt still but sole I ran away from Berkeley to let the leaves break loose. Autumn now in Paris The trees unstitch their signatures The season now for sorting & discerning what to keep 10/26/16
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air --- The edge cuts without cutting meets --- nothing --- renews itself in metal or porcelain --- whither ? It ends --- But if it ends the start is begun so that to engage roses becomes a geometry --- Sharper, neater, more cutting figured in majolica the broken plate glazed with a rose Somewhere the senses makes copper roses steel roses --- The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end --- of roses If it is at the edge of the petal that love waits Crisp, worked to defeat laboredness --- fragile plucked, moist, half-raised cold, precise, touching What The place between the petal's edge and the From the petal's edge a line starts that being of steel infinitely fine, infinitely rigid penetrates the Milky Way without contact --- lifiting from it neither hanging nor pushing --- The fragility of the flower unbruised penetrates spaces