We Can Smile

In a morning shower that shines, we can smile.
Moonbeams and your life,
beating,
vibrating
against mine.
And we can shake up the world tonight.

You're the honey
dripping on my ribs
absorbing are my,
hungry lungs.
Sweet in everything I'm going to breath
I will smile.

We're heavy
but we're the leaves
tumbling from trees.
And I feel you
swimming against my skin,
and you're free.

I see vacant picture frames
but I fear my life may be a passing second
and I'm holding on just this last time.

I'll have the courage
not to ask for more
although maybe the scissors have cut
through the feathered pillows in my mind
I'm here still, in this vacant orchard.
We still run through my filled up soul.
Even though we'll die tomorrow,
I can take my gloves off next to you tonight
and for just this moment
everything will be alright.


We can smile.

Visionary

I am most alive in a dream. In these restless quiet travels, I can stumble over mountains and wipe my eyes with sand and fervently move my hands down the lines in the lands caressing the noble void that is a heart's frontier. An untouchable, invisible stretch of exploration that spans across centuries, millennia even (for we can live that long if we try), carries its weight over my body and over yours. A warm wind with periodic gusts may escalate the balance in the meter of our souls. A pendulum can keep time but tell no time to the cushioned rains over clouds. No maudlin existence resides here, only a benign sort of nostalgia enlaced in the cross-hatch patterned stone under our bare feet. The reaching above all hypothesis had ever anticipated, above the foundation that firmly places me, strong, stubborn life, exhaling in the pleasures that fall into a basket, I can wear as ribbons to show them why. Why the sun can always rise to warm every particle on the inside and stroke my face in a comforting habit. Why I smile when the rain comes barreling down from the sky. Why I know every thing is going to be just fine. In my dreams, I feel so much more life, a real life, an existential binge and an endless search of knowledge. In my dreams, we're alright.

Letter (Random Excerpt)

For no one,
oh no, I'll never disappoint you. I feel this dream moving inside of me but I can't feel the life and I think that kind of confirms everything. I've never been more awake than the day I realized the truth that no one really has any friends. And maybe I'm a little lonely, maybe I'm just looking for some peace of mind.

It's getting quiet again. I can feel a black haze falling over me, it feels like death, and smells like it too. Lillies and wine. I'm watching the curtains falling over every day.

I'm waiting, eyes closed, slowed breathing. The scent of a long past gently touching me. Pathetically hoping that tomorrow everything will feel okay. I had only wished.

Still I dream of it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5yQ8JJ8R9E

Dying.

My pieces weave delicate patterns
Encompassing moments that brought them.
Splintering my own fingers.
Dying.

Every last note
a minimal composition
accented to a heartbeat
and playing along.
A peaceful penetration.
But dying.

Every breath drawn
Every breath released
Every breath that rises above,
twisting innumerable smoke streams.
Evaporating ecstasy.
That move you farther away from me.

Dying.
Under leather skin
from the whispers, gasps,
a smile.

And seeing the length of the skies
against the shortest moment of our lives
and living again, just one more time.
And then now,
Dying.

I wake to the sound of jazz playing in some distant room. I wake to the waters that covered the outsides of my eyes and dried. I wake to the breeze, to the heat, to the ground shaking under my feet. I wake to a morning now far off. I wake to a stranger's heartbeat, I won't ever hear. I wake to voices long since forgotten, replaced by some familiarity. I wake to an aching that never seems to end. I wake to this room, empty, with some awkward view of oceans I'm too small to sail on and of forests I may only drift through, maybe once. I wake to silence that hungers me. I wake to an inch of a swallowed whole that clings by nails that dig the flesh and cut the bone, but it's the only piece of this wake that I know, the only broken edge that stabs the eye and allows the canvas to survive.

Dream. Too Far.

The day has gone blind. /She falls all over herself. /Lost in everything, /it's some impractical dream. /Losing sight. /Only soft scent on the horizon points to some--/is it destiny? /No. Just something. /Some daylight. /Warmer than this/ recedes.

"I want to be left alone. I want to sit in the grass. I want to ride my horse. I want to lay a woman naked in the grass on the mountainside. I want to think. I want to pray. I want to sleep. I want to look at the stars. I want what I want. I want to get and prepare my own food, with my own hands, and live that way. I want to roll my own. I want to smoke some deer meat and pack it in my saddlebag and go away over the bluff. I want to read books. I want to write books. I'll write books in the woods. Thoreau was right; Jesus was right. It's all wrong and I denounce it and it can all go to hell. I don't believe in this society, but I believe in man, like Mann. So roll your own bones, I say." Kerouac to Ginsberg, summer 1949