Real, mysterious, legally binding and recordable magic – Old Journals

Some absurdities are witnessed, so twisted, offensive, perverted,
they must be laughed at. If not, if stared at stone face unmoved,
steel, taken serious, you’d turn ill, go mad. So laugh, smile,
express vulnerability in staccato breath chuckles.

Absolve the absurd. To fixate on the word is to live in a title. How idle.
No definition. Argument. Language travels unravels long storied mystery,
romance, and some talk so long about the song they forget to dance along.
Create. Define. It is necessary for there to be words that cause people to cringe. Emboldened, condescending letters indicative of sins. We live everyday. Make decisions. Avoiding feeling fear over words, short bits of code humanity accumulated over time,
able to reach far inside a gut and tear it up. And that is power.
Real, mysterious, legally binding and recordable magic.
And humans own it. It is ours. Offenses rain down in showers.
Baptizing, exercising, digging ditches and gullies
after how much the sacrament has stolen.
But between me and you, these empty spaces
are not to be feared, but filled in.

One of those guys

Rejected at the premise. On premise alone. Swung and missed and gone.
One look. No deep long intimate inspection into internal plains,
tilled rows, dry garden dust choked breath off weak spirit.
Weak season. Bags beneath lonely, hungry eyes.
One of those guys. Adopted big brother, who,
is only on the inside, like no other. Stubborn.
Refuses to share no common ground.

Do not even try to stand on the same earth.
Rejected upon premise. Swung and missed and gone.
From birth.

Pull of All Our Pounds – Old Journals

Car after car, unending, road bending,
engines adjust and then descending,
into distances no one can know.
Not even the eyes that drive do.
Not enough to stop the car.
So they can not know where they are.
Because they would. Stop.
Press the pedals of unfeeling ground.
An ever-reeling mound.
The pull of all our pounds.
Clutching everything around and turning it.
Soft enough we can not feel, like a child,
rocked to sleep instead of awake.
A world that has no brakes,
and the gas pedal stuck, unmoving.

Never losing what is not in some opposite way regained.

Car after car whips by as fast the one before,
ignorant just the same. Each one equally insane.
For no matter the direction they are headed,
each one believes they are in the right lane.

Time is our favorite way of putting the world on the spot.

Time is about to pick up pace and not slow down.
Until autumn starts to settle its yellow orange red brown crown,
this is the realm of the sun. And long lines of cracked dust
gold arch counting isolated clouds wilting shade from above
days have only just begun. Raining almost every sort of thing but water.

Yellow ejaculate off shamefully quiet, rouged leaved oak trees,
wood ash off brushfires, the voices off birds and little fluff balls
off wood ducks crash thirty odd smooth feet onto leaves,
day light and bright stars fighting for positions in forgotten constellations,
dead quiet, almost everlasting, off of the mind’s horizon.

Time is straightening out to dive in, kick legs like frightened fins
so deep the water pressure pops somewhere,
inside the ears of time, deaf, short of breath,
buried beneath the weight of chock blue salt bearing water.
Time dies, and is about to return to life, again,
just as the studious, slow illusion of progression
has done before, and before, and before.

Returned. Resurrected. Risen.
To break face above the surface.
And once time starts to pick up pace,
it doesn’t slow down for any of us.