1. |
Inherent Habits.
04:42
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wind in eyes
lung tight
feel like a ghost tonight
slight rhyme
all Hail Marry
where is the zone tonight
big hands
all bumbling
like they don’t know each other
reciting
all ends wrong
letting down the poem’s curve
the point is
elusive
it’s sharpness dulled in drunkenness
come right down
breathe calm
realize and act as a whole
open eyes
revealing
a room of people listening
the purpose
a halo
over head not sinking in
compliments
buttered
in passing and in leaving
once again
a failure
aware of what is better done
hide all them recipes
for success and happiness
those cut throat tactics
are not inherent habits
at home and under cover
playing all the moments backwards
nothing done nothing doing
work starts again in the morning
hide all them recipes
for success and happiness
those cut throat tactics
are not inherent habits of mine
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2. |
How a Thing.
05:00
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when waste mounts high
on screens
mediocre time
following
it spreads wide
breathes like a cheap bottle of wine
a landsape framed
in the dentist’s room to wait
your turn
how bland a thing
we usually make
in the time when
we only need to get by
we’ve signed our names
everday
swiped and sworn
away
but what’s on file
with our mark we’re proud to say
“that was me, that defined and swept
my life"
how deep a thing
were made to make
in the time when
we’re forced to say what we mean
when its said out loud
and sharp
with no hazy aid
or inhibitions lowered
the thing you felt
was a bag of gravel and nails
and now that shame
ripples for weeks
and dreams
how dumb a thing
we love to make
at the place when
we think a drug is our friend
every one’s got a turn
and line
that transforms
morphs
It sways and swoops as
the lava-lamp- like flight of birds
in a flock and pulse
to avoid any end
lonely
how sad a thing
we love to make
when we realize
times is not a friend
how real a thing
we need to make
at the time when
were forced to say goodbye
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3. |
I'm Aware I'm.
04:55
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down
with everything little thing have been up to
intake
has mostly been little lists of waste
theglass
is tilted with intent to destroy
the mirror is clear
my outline is bold
I’m aware I'm
out of line
I’ve fucked my dreams
they’re un-magical little copies of what I’ve seen
my hearing
is washed with a party loving tween
my seeing
an episode a show a series
one little steam
and the button and the belt are coming off
the camera works
it’s focus on
I’m aware I'm
out of line
oh could read
but the glowing comfot of the screen
oh could sleep
but warm sense of well being
oh could think
but the numbing thumbing of the feed
intervene
this kind of living.
I’m aware i’m
out of line
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4. |
Films and Proofs.
04:24
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get behind me, get behind me
no tip jar, through a few grand
standing next to stilts by the well
wishing this building not on sand
its necessity to meet you
when it’s feeling not busy
with a reminder to impress you
and convert the event to tender
lock hands, form some safety
a small comfort, one giant relief
trusting it’s there beneath me
should some nerve be extracted
to see that something that I have made
holds up, holds like a spouse
it remains in some album
the films and proofs of the honey moon.
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5. |
Column of Words.
04:43
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as I come back from counting
the moments of lights
remembering eyes are the window
to a soul or such a like
then my lids are the sill
to let a reality cool and sit
like a pie out the oven
on the bags on the bruises
it’s like cartoon scent lines
that seep into my mind
like fog with a hand and a
"come here” curling finger
like a line we think we know
in a hallway that’ s time
with two tone checkered floor
each moment a tile
Too far ahead Too far behind
and the tones obscure
then I realize I’m just visiting
this hallway has no mind no plan
like sand that passes through
the hour glass this is a column of words
that separates something
i have begun
and as columns are not circles
and hour glasses are not clocks
i must end
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6. |
Belt Hole Calendar.
07:03
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If we’ve seen it all before
then why
insist on re-watching
I’ve reduced my human mind
to a pattern
counting spaces in between
eating
rice-like intervals
stacking years of actor’s work
into hours
boxing up my only field
of vision
treating it like sand
as the nicer moments fall
like water
scratch a tally for a day
and notching
the belt hole calendar.
But you cannot
think about it
every moment
has already
gone and left you
by the time you
time you want to
appreciate it.
We have engineered our time
to fashion
in cycles and in rhymes
we have engineered our time
to spend it
to be hopeful at the end
with surplus
and never back on call
with days left under a sun
still burning
and watching us all day
doing
nothing all the way.
But you cannot
think about it
every moment
has already
gone and left you
by the time you
time you want to
appreciate it.
And I do not recall moments
that make what I call my insides
things like mother before her war
the room I was in for seven-
teen years what else was on
the street that I grew up on
what wast the first song that made me
decide to waste my time on this
thing that I am doing right now
right here in this room I might not
recall even a small amount about
Give it sway, the clock its weight.
Give it sway, the clock its weight.
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7. |
Staring Game.
06:22
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As my clocks smallest needle
does it’s business of circling
I am loitering for some passion
and dedication to jump out of me
Hope for a hint of some evening
or an event to buzz at me
run my fingers through the empty groove
that held a thing defining me.
How I feel i’ve been demoted
to a microphone thats open
in some night place left unattended
like a dry aquarium at a yard sale.
As our star leaks it’s last light
not to turn off but to leave,
I am sinking at it’s same pace,
no flash could capture it’s sheen.
Then some democratic cupid
convinces me that I tried
to engage every loving thought
I convinced myself I implied.
Why does it feel so bad and good
to waste free time given to me?
With the mantra “it will happen.”
Hoping it’s the one that finds me.
So time and space are the same thing
and we’re never not moving.
Where does it come from this stillness
in my way of growing?
I hear and sense it’s importance,
the clock winning the staring game.
I wish that it’s small hands could push me
and sway me into some change.
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8. |
Pendulum.
06:02
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when will the day hide
the ripples of last night
damp in dim light
when will I rise?
when will a time give
me sweet countenance
a return amount
that equals out
my only light reigns
in a bend then break
then actions split
random sweet lips
like harvest from the bee
we call one loved honey
like ones she’s made
call a spouse a baby
a work day achieved
a morning met with grief
falling soundless seeds
flip the glass count the sand
when will the chatter cease
a thousand broke little cells
in some heat upstairs
layer opinions as noise
when will it be so
obtusely obvious
a clock strikes “let it go”
why won’t its beating little hand
hold my bending head
lets a bell chime
with the ache of some note
“it’s time to let this go”
as a descending line
or half moon symbol describes
if healing just takes time
then you mend as you die
for pendulum to sway
it needs an event with weight
enough to start its way
not so much it breaks its chain
As I ride in
some returning drive
in color stupified
when will these break lights die?
erase the red from the night
like you from my
imagination’s files
and give a stellar black
in my blinking eyes
don’t let me see you
every other time
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