I write poetry sometimes. I usually take my time and edit quite a bit, but recently, as I was in the passenger seat going through Pennsylvania, I decided to do the Kerouac thing and write line after line without thinking too much about it to see what would happen. I did some very minor edits, but roughly heres what happened: Along a Pennsylvania Valley there is nothing more he wants than to fill you with his language than to choke on your flowers than to mingle his ghosts with yours than to swallow the sugary brown Caribbean than to shine brass and blow through the curve of a hill to paint sunsets on his shoulders such as he is a child locked in his room here, I placed your heart in your watch tick, tick, tick here I named your itch it was the easiest thing I did today the calendar always turns purple and there is a ship full of hurt come to port I post notes on the future sweat over mangled punchlines and valleys over fault-lines You, who name a cow after a part of the country who name daughter after daughter after the fauna lilts in your ear kept in bales, bound by shoelaces big sky punched out by a trigger finger I didnt laugh as much as I could have which at times was a kindness or the dulling hour or the children with monarch names ruling over heartbroken geography Im hiding from the sun Im hiding inside my coat Im hiding inside a joke the road is another blown tire and deer carcass and fluffy bundles of balding trees it is long to the peak and decent and the drifting oar at the end of a dream whats coursing through my blood is too many of you is the panorama of our anguish random as antlers grazing the sky in the unifying theory the counterpoint is still pink when I came out of my coat it was night after night I closed my eyes and reached into the dark you breathed beside me Its agreeable we dont know how to die but I want to meet you halfway in your jokes your cold bed slowly warming the things I most recognize is the veneer is the animal with practiced eyes is the freeway named after someone who died is the ginger of hope/no hope the weakest relation is a relation is who will answer when you are alone in the woods in your inconsequential backyard graveyard a rounding error on the sum of merits that goes unquenstioned that goes in an empty starship to some other dying star named Hope I wish we could talk about it in the echo of a garage in the places we have parked in the lottery of getting by all you need is the most convincing story the weakest person in the world is everyone said the Sun calling out to her children who lived in a choking flourish beneath the long shadow of golden wings
Posted on: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 14:49:09 +0000
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