strung on a line

i am held
listening to you
preserved in the stilled action of a pause
where i have built something
from the consideration of the space
within which we move

notes sunk as milestones
dropped as pebbles
forming ripples
all these intermixing circles
we can map it with an observation

there are novelties to build
there are similarities to count
waves that collapse into forward movement
waves that can be dreamt in reverse
uncracked eggs that speak poetry of symmetry
rhymes at either end of a road
we bookend a perfect moment
parentheses for a perfect calculation
the man who was and the man who is
strung on a line with pearls of wisdom
some flung to swine, some to build a kingdom

the stones in our mouths

complication spiderwebs the vision
we are breaking into the inertia
to discover the stillness
promised by our will to inactivity
we urge them to let us stop
we are clocks; want to be right twice a day

but we miss those moments
we have no way to mark them
we have satellites, no way to task them
sources of information; no way to ask them

we say we are at the edge
we are buried in a centre we are pushing at
unable to see the indistinct
out there were it blurs
because in here, where it stirs,
we are farming a blindness
because it seems easier

but when we talked
when we moved towards an understanding
when we mended broken circles
when we opened our mouths
and we took out the stones
we could build a bridge
and take down the walls inside ourselves

i had to burn

the silence has descended on tongues that talked once
tongues that knew how to spin gold from chaff
before the heart counterfeited itself
and moved into a held breath of fear
a skipped beat, rotten meat, rotten teeth

do not look to watch the watch
no one clocks the clock
we come to rock the rock
upend the immovable object
by dreaming the unstoppable force

you think the shout is a whisper
tongues knotting around explanations
queered pitches, turned to excuse
turned to verbal abuse; an ability to confuse

once we were the prophets
disguising the future in the poetry
and they built movements from the words
saw themselves in faces in the water
and learned to swim through the static
whitenoise scratching at the mirrors surface
this lake, these depths
the way we speak built around breaths
i had to breathe
before i could speak
i had to learn before i could teach
i had to burn before i could reach

and this is this

this way of writing that we learn
this way of fighting that we earn
moving into a fall
from a stumble
that becomes a trajectory
and finds a purpose
this is the gravity of jazz

we have an ear for the speech
and a kind of reach
that dreams of ebonies, ivories
has meat between its teeth
and a grasp that defies belief

from the weave
the interleave of know and believe
comes something that can transmogrify
set alight the visionary eye
make a camera from the observer
make art from the observation
but only if you lean into the wind
only if you acknowledge the precipice
only if you say i am here and this is this

love is

love isn’t a candle
carrot or stick
healer or vandal
love can ignore, or love can implore us
love is the best thesaurus
and i mean you
and you mean me
and with you i found out how great it can be
i never found how late it can be
because it always arrives at the right time
day time or night time
when it comes to a fight time
when it comes to peace
you never withdraw and you never cease
because you own this; it isn’t a life on lease

double shadow pikadon

a dead confusion; a static
something lost and automatic
something dressed a tragic
episodic magic

there are mushroom clouds in the backyard
there’s cancer in the front
there’s sunshine, there’s paper cranes
fat man and little boy and godzilla dancing

because we don’t know lollapalooza
under the breath shibboleth
machine gun fire and easy death
we watch the fate swiftly undress

a script frees
from a terminal striptease
some kind of crypt wheeze
of the last gasp kings of a failing world

don’t look so gloomy
the coffins roomy
decisions entomb me
and down we all domino

a worked for dream

it isn’t steam
a worked for dream
you write it on the window
it’s skinned though
you dream it isn’t

we make it all electric
and for those who can’t detect it
have a flag but won’t erect it
have sweeter meat but infect it
you will see and recollect it

we have words for you
it’s true
but that’s a surface read
this is something on which you can feed
this is something for which you bleed

this is a dream and it’s realer than you