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| The wind has told me it has flight in it again.
Though it has been a long drive, the notebook is telling me �never put me down� again. I am learning sign language in order to make love through shop windows. Even though I am much too aware of this world. my grandmother tells me stories the way life tells stories I�m thinking tonight of my blue eyes, sun Standing over us in mock surprise, everything New. they are always different. What will they call this age after a thousand years have gone? Golden curls and lost chances, there Is an hour when everything dances and Clouds and mountains have quick romances Music of indelible melancholy I forgot: (somewhere over New Vietnam soccer moms are dropping bombs) I�m trying to remain calm; the shakes and sweats of love. I wish to step o�er a heap of centuries I wish I had a dollar left to set on fire. - Water these. -What are these? What is sweet anymore? Water�These� So I went away to a high place of breaking and wonder Hoping to come back bearded and gaunt beneath a low shroud of grown hair bejeweled and carrying scars; no longer a fool, a little bit drunk and carrying stars. Everything I create out of focus I�m walking along a river with blue eyes and blonde hair. My carnival is five years old and sparkles My last love letter to you was called �War.� [here include the torn out pages that were an ode given to a girl on a bus] then we spent the next ten years speaking to each other about something that had shattered until finally you wept rose petals and we closed the book. I am time and I go to a secret garden to pray. Last night: awake until four am with an acoustic guitar and a pack of cigarettes and your name. In a series of dreams I learn a lost language in order to panic in a strange neighborhood. I remember praying for rain at four years old and the rain coming down in the streets and then I forget. I build a bed in your eyes. Places I�ve slept The World destroyed by Kindness. I am sitting on a Providence sidewalk smoking a hand-rolled American Spirit� writing all of this in a Moleskine Notebook� with a Fisher Space Pen� utterly exhausted of my Self�. Places I�ve awakened: The back seat of your car A psychiatric hospital Your storage unit A boiler room In the dark In the basement hallway of the Arcade On a hill over the Seekonk river We talked for three hours in the cafeteria of the psychiatric hospital we have both been locked in then fucked in the back seat of your Saturn, Elmgrove avenue foot traffic all around. I am homeless because I finally learned to live in my heart and you stole it. There is a place It is myth or mystery Where all broken things are reassembled And I am going there Dressed as a gypsy Resplendent with bracelets and turquoise Blind-handed and sun worn Along a trail of discarded prophets Disregarding landmarks and landmines Inventions of suns Romances of oceans, walls of time To see the gears of a clock Repaired A label fixed again to a can I am missing the carrying of stones The evolution of language turned to flow backwards A serpent leaving the first letter in the Sand Morning, wet with breath, wrestling darkness to the ground to see nothing more than a guitar string whole again. |