Monday, May 19, 2014

Holding Against.

If I knew what I was doing,
I would not be doing what I'm doing.
You can always play the guitar like it's silent:
lose the loss and not the intent.
Please hold it against me.
Dot your eyes and cross this T.
Hold your love up close to my heart.
Hold me down so as not to part.
I want to feel it close, velvet,
deep level vibrations like a threat.
As when I felt something back then
without questioning the sensation.
The black holding the stars together,
the sky holding up the weather.
The black of which you talk of,
the tantrum of sparks of which you balk of.
To make a little decision,
to disavow with such precision.
That black is just as flat
as the endless expanse unwrapped.
That squirming little worm,
the smoldering ball defined carelessly as a term,
made out of construction paper,
to be pasted on the wall a bit later.
That worm that gets to change what you see.
Until it doesn't and you hold it against me.
Done breathlessly.
My arms spring upwards into action,
thoughtlessly enacting throat protection.
It is involuntary and I do not want it.
Hold it against me and I'll flaunt it.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Your Eyes Like Bullet Holes.

Staring into the mirror I see
that tension of life with its inability.
I've got stars in my eyes
and they make me look dead inside.
My house is a ghost waiting to be built,
the cascade of the river side silt.
Nothing is ever perfect as you go.
A trust in severed vectors foregoes
the precision of choosing
with the decision of losing.
Wherever you go just get there.
Get aware of your leg loose of the snare.

I shout bullets from my eyes
and punch holes in your head with surprise.
The wounds open up and the pupils in there
like jewels glitter and milky they stare.
These hands handle smoke to construct the forest
out of words and nothing and your caress.
There is not much else but amber liquid.
The wings of a horsefly whirring undid.
This ammunition you have here is innocuous,
with the bullet casing spinning I become delirious.
A slow, slow walk, the trees talk with a stutter.
The wind blowing away a memory of another.
Whatever, don't care, it happens to be no bother,
Too bad I'm so secular that I can't understand the proverb.