about being silent.

Switched lights target low flight

scattering feathers of

constant re-hashed time flow

the weaving thoughts of

pre-poetics clamor for

the front lobe pole position

on page and drawn reality

these spirits of miss-formed

P's and E's

grumbling sigils of

peace and ease

easily piecing together the

frozen leopard

from cross-state

we can walk on it

and ignor the cracking doom

of ruined sweaters and

substandard living

gasping for an overhang that

can keep us out of the cold

it brings you to me,

shivering with the

spirit of lowell and

san fransisco, chicago, and

cardiff

I walk through a miasma

of reconsideration to find it,

breathing underground

with the heaving chests

of social alcaholism

I twist my body and mind around

it's pointed pen, vessel for

spirits of lowell, san fransisco,

chicago, and home

I write you down so that

you can be small on the page,

and so

so

so big when I breathe you

out

out

out onto the new

freed from my mind but

contained in images of

the silent, wanting to

be silent

the silence

silence

being silent isn't knowing how to make no sounds, it's knowing what sounds you can make and still not be heard.

be silent.

snow day

it's not the snow

coming down in a steady winter coat

a rested hand upon the head of

our slush filled shoes

unreal to us until it

sticks

at our slush fearing feet

the anticipation of what

comes after the fall

my unrested mind trying

to imagine a world with

calm, rested presence of

earthly context

this universal feeling we get from this

worldly phenomenon

this crystallized realization of

the worth of our roofs, jackets,

and communal warmth

it swirls around lightposts

illuminated and uniformly

lit

the golden halo now grey and

bright

so bright and grey

so bright and grey

sinking through the souls of our feet

the souls of our walking and wishing

forward feet

framed by tree and lamp and this thought and

it's not

the snow

it's how the world might look after

how the spaces will be filled

and the burners in our

hearts will be stoked with

anticipation

it's not

the snow

it's how I imagine you might look with flakes in your hair

and how you might squint so you can see

it's not

the snow

it's

the things that might come after

and how they'll all

look

about fixed form and the lounge

the sound amplified by the

sound of my dying frequent friends

sequentially dying friends of

subsequent things that end in

super-ceded thought of dreams

snake skinned tambourines

dictionary poets with eyes the size of wings

could concieve the fashion

but terrified of things

that sleep away the rainy days

and bring us to our knees

what are these things these stupid things

that take away our dreams

these jabberwocky, made up monsters

face eternal screams

these fixtures in the walls of carvings

made of brick and sex and starving

fueled with liquor, soda, frosting

caked with sweetness, sad, and roasting

kicking it with teachers, teaching

breathing

breathing

breathing

breathing

fade away you tired things

you ghosts of what that could have been

you mock me with your cheerfull grin

you take me through the phases

I try to pass but stop some how

my mind is teatherd to the crowd

and murmmurs with this silent. loud.

and cracks with stifled laughter

the room the room the sacred room

protected by 3 gold dubloons

could open up the sun and moon

and steady nihilistic crazes

face yourselves and prey good health

on those who share this wordy wealth

and thank you, for you share yourself

and that's what we're all after

thinking

thinking

thinking

thinking

the barriers of minds are breaking

talking, speaking, cracking, quaking

falling into sleepers wakened

and by 7:30 these seats are taken

we angels covered in the dirt of the world

breathing underground and sing

through wood and ground and jazz and stairs

our pen and paper bring

from passing through it seems

I saw between these things

we are steel, we are flynt

god given and sent

believed the walls for their scent

but we never relent

smaerd fo thguoht dedec-repus

ni dne taht sgniht tneuqesbus

fo sdneirf gniyd yllaitneuqes

sdneirf tneuqerf gniyd ym fo dnuos

nht yb deifilpma dnuos eht

something about the tears of oblivion, Brighton

what if these baby-blue gifts from the maternal aegis,

were nothing more than protective

threads

torn from the blinking reality of

assume existence

do you die when I turn my head,

can you feel it,

does it hurt?

interrupted meta-narratives of

meta-understanding and meta-

knowledge\

cannot save me from \the screaming idea

that when I cannot see you,

you are not there.

I am the cross-stitched pattern of flesh

that you are dreamed from and

I have not heard silence since

I kissed you\and the blood in my head

rushed [out of my ears, onto the floor,

and dissolved in the amen filled void

down near the Matterly Bowl

when I cannot feel your skin,

mine shivers

when I cannot hear your voice,

all I can hear is the ringing reminder that I am not the master of reality.

You said I looked good in blue.

and you stitched the green

into my hat.

and sometimes I look at it, and

visit you in the void,

where it still might be silent (but we are probably dead)

for every texture, there is a shadow and

I stitch a portrait of you, using threads that I find

between them.

untitled, in brighton

Tea and the implied smoulder

of half ribbed terran hearts

spinning dervish of Hackneyed

shorditch passing counter culture

fiends

eyes with condor wings, the

bald spinning, virginal smoke

ring

what ground that we tread on

with shakey, whole fear

the burning spiral of terrestrial hearts

the greatest rival of

the cosmos

we hold and control you

with names, starting with

I, as you, and the beginning

dance endlessly upon the

beating chest of gia

the wind can only destroy

your form, obliterate your

significance from the

visible spectrum

strumming Joe's and others

of narcissistic Shorditch

endless fear, and

referential glory

the best is the ground that

does not tip us over, and

the whirling smoke is the

best we can do

Tea, brewed with the hearts of

crashing test pilots, shoved

up our noses, mellowed

with a curl of fractal

knowledge.

and we are with it

and through the smoke, I can

see you swirling

digits rigid with euphoria

legs rooted in with terrestrial

vows

we we we they we they they we

they are weak

and we are they

the lack

I write on neglected

pages

passing through moments

of silence and

forgotten phrases of

beauty

eager to find

the living green

deconstructed

form of star

growling black and

green growing green

I look to you from

the unseen angle

------------

the you when

unfound you and

unseen lines

you have gilded

edges and worn

corners.

a dark panel with

gemmed lock

I look to you from

the unseen angle

trying to remember

a face that will

always be more

beautiful in the

third dimension

I write on neglected

pages, simple words

and green growing

black

I look to you from

unseen angles

digging deep into

tattered pockets for

pictures of time

that do not exist

I am the traveler

I am the face of

unfinished thought

I am the lack

I write on neglected

pages, trying to find

the unseen angel

of growing life on the

deconstructed form

of star

the neglected thought

of preservation

I am the lack

I must continue

and push

through

the empty

to find you again