2.10.2005

more Guatemala-inspired work!

Alas, it's almost time to get ready for open-mic night. I'm planning on giving Brianne a buzz and seeing if she's still game for going, and if so, i'll likely go pick her up and head over to Cafe Aroma for some Thursday-night artist-community hellraising! Hopefully it's actually going on and it's not just a rumour. Until I get off my ass and come back to post another entry, though, have the most fantastic of evenings, and when you find yourself heading to bed, dream sweetly.

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stuck

2/10/05

movement seems dire
in the forward regard
as an empty day stuffed
with washed-out scarecrows
colors on by
cause god, I need to let slip
the memory of that place
where I slid across the streets
in a feathery embrace, upon
clouds of smoke in an endless hope
for things I cannot mention
but I can’t forget, so here I’ll sit

I’d mention those things
that I remember
a little here and a little there
but they’re all tiny slivers
just beneath the surface –
plucking one is to loathe them all
and it’s
beauty
in the sunlight that I’d remember
I’d take the pain and cast it away
only knowing the flowers
and the way they glued
themselves to the street
as
they
fell
plummeting into fresh cement
like the dying of fancies or wished-on stars
each of them
streaming and streaking and exploding towards
this masked and hidden way

but if I’d open the door
and let it come back
I’ll know the sorrow
was just a shadow weak and hoarse
barely heard and rarely spied
so instead I could take a stance
and paint the past
in washed-out blues, aged yellows,
and rusted rouges
each lime-based and recklessly applied
with the precision of watchmakers
to shadow-walls and saddened-halls –
like so much Spanish and birdsong,
just a few flowers
trapped and floating
on an ancient cobblestone road

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