an inkstorm summoned under live oak we dreamed. daniel boonelight

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ of meeting you

      the way that your face felt

      as though i had cradled it

      and cared for it in war before

      the way that your big feeling

      furtive eyes wanted saving

      to be met with salve in a bid

      of tomorrowlike understanding

      i've swatted the flying fruits

      round my head before with

      ample self-protection but i

      will never be able to bet

      on a jackpot like the reason

      the sunshine brought your heart

      to my needing bareboned belief

      wishes and hope 5-7-17

      from the time that i met her, she was always so defiant, so peculiarly against the grain of what most people considered acceptable or true. she pointedly disliked natural-formed hearts in art. she ducked out of pictures taken for the wrong reason. she needed heaps of alone time in hikes with a dog chosen for her spirit as voracious and independent as herself. and one battle she always saddled up to was the subject of wishes. adamant as an evening storm, she'd say, "don't waste your time on eyelashes and dandelions, on numbers that string together on a clock. there's a lot more worth your energy." this roiled up the places inside me where my favorite childhood songs cast their lighthouses, where the fanciful part of my dreaming head felt comforted in the joy of picking dandelions once spring hit and i was good and outside.

      so one day i asked her, "what's the difference between wishes and hope?" her answer seemed to imply that the latter was noble, and had a sense of trust lain into the providential, the order of the universe that superseded everything. while the former relied on tradeshow tricks, the smoke-and-mirror show of superstition. and the whole thing made me think about belief, and where it came from, and if all the bright shining wishings of my carnival-sugared head throughout my life were betrayed by my sheer want for better, my desire for the unexpected to knock me silly with luck borne out of my willing, or if my scars shown with the knotted shapes of disappointment. i had to wonder where we all keep finding the will. where we store all the heart chips to bet like the universe's casino broker still might have a wink in our names as though he owed our father a favor from back in the gold rush days. somehow i keep singing, because it's all i know how to do.

      imbroglio 5-22-16

      words are an instrument

      that instrument and i are in a relationship

      and that relationship is an imbroglio

      it is unforgettable the way

      i have heard three dangling words

      escape from the panting breaths

      next to my ear as though they meant

      all the heavens and stars combined

      in their intent and gravity

      and much later when nothing

      except silence replaced them

      i am tempted by mistrust and anger

      to give them scarlet lettering

      banish their welcome from my life

      but were i to fall deeply into regard

      with the presence of a cello,

      and it sang the clockwork of my heart

      if a person kicked and mangled that cello

      and it did not last into forever,

      i would not hate that cello

      but would be grateful for everything

      it enabled rightly in its fair time

      sometimes someone makes something

      like a stradavarius or willy's trigger

      and by some stroke of grace, it lasts

      through hundreds of generations

      of doves of freedom to redeem

      and those instruments are

      the pet-names that last a long marriage

      or a cherished childhood expression

      someone whispers to a smile on a deathbed

      or a monologue uttered inside the globe

      theatre that recounts the same heartstirrings

      today as it did back when foodforaging

      took hours and a maidenface was salvation

      the instrument i employ

      to channel to another these vibrations

      that comprise my inner sanctum

      is verily lovable, because if we did not

      play out these songs then we would

      sit in silence and not know any

      of the joy and sorrow, the pain and pleasure

      that each other held in womb real as rocks

      but sometimes i am forced to put

      the thing quietly back in its case

      and under the bed, because it is time

      finally, for quiet.

      words are an instrument

      that instrument and i are in a relationship

      and that relationship is an imbroglio

      reeling 3-30-16

      i remember each of us

      self-aware and bright

      locking on to the notion

      that an us was a supernova,

      and spinning out reels and line

      of the best usses we knew

      how to show in real and time

      now as i lay down quiet

      in СКАЧАТЬ