Friday, December 14, 2007

Standing on a Corner

A mere man among mortals

Sanctifying his own mission

Waving his arms into the sky

Screaming so his voice will fail him later

Wishing he could fly

A mere man among mortals

Soaring as if he had a thought

Sublimated like steam through a winter storm drain

Warming the indigent

He repeats the same words all over again

Hoping they mean something else the next time he exhales hot air into the atmosphere


A mere man among mortals

Monday, December 3, 2007

Gravity

As gravity keeps pulling me down to Earth again, there is less aire in the sky than what is machinated in my mind’s fluidly mechanized vault. Gravity wants to bring me down, always working against me. The soil under my toes knows where I’m headed and where I want to go. Mutually exclusive, modernly elusive peels of whispers pepper the ground in a way that elicits feelings of masterful fluency in a language that knows no bounds. Gravity is a human construct struck as a reason why the need for an apotheosis is fucked. As I stare at my gossamer feet bastardizing this beautiful array of grass, soil, and my feet, I wake myself my limping into the milk garden of an inexplicable past foregone, which has been fermenting [or what it fomenting?] in a way that leaves the world spinning while trying to pull itself apart. Pulling itself together on its way to the forward-leaning nations of the future. There’s light! There’s noise! I trip over my own tongue trying to think up something to say, but I can’t so I just look as if all my answers were traced into the dirt. I tip over and fall onto my head trying to see what’s the matter with myself and I’m blinded by the darkness that rests upon the beleaguered.

Gravity.

Glorious swings of waves that swings up around to sling us towards the future irrefutably fitting fits of rage that gravity can create. I’ve been pulling away from Earth to see my mouth and teeth training to reduce the rubble of an inexpressive scare tactic. Never in the universe has anyone ever been so chatty as to unveil the shroud that covers the microphonetic sprawl of your earlobes. Wishfully considering the contra-positive to this questionable metaphor, I stand boldly in the heat of the dark’s discomfort and throw two feet in a fire that’s ember-ed and diminished due to the backslide of the world’s monetary wonderment. You should see the vivid colors shining through the leaves I stare at while resting from gravity on the ground. I dedicate the next ten minutes to inactivity and submission to gravity, as the Earth gets to engage in the vertiginous reactivity to its foils. Madness needs to cease. Grasp onto the ridiculously luscious irascible cancer foaming at the mouth to have a chance with our world.

Gravity.

Tension pulling down on me, spreading the world and counting me. When the earth comes singly out of dark over the horizon, I gaze into the sun and see my own reflection of what’s to come. What’s to come. What’s to come to the ground after pulling off the strings tying the screen to the background. Pulling off the strings of the bee. When the masterful fleeting of the wings slice through the bubbles locked in the pocket emptied out over out heads. [Kinda like that metaphor, huh?] A sheet spread out over the floor to create a bed for the imaginations of the masses to run wild. Maybe in circles. Maybe in squares. Maybe a sheet to make a cape and fly away. Or a cape to be dragged by. Dragged out of bed to be taken to the big bright lights left outside to dwindle. Dragging myself home by the steering wheel of my own conscience. I lean back in a tug-of-way that endures all night as I fight the light coming into sight slightly over the horizon. Just keep me where the light is.

Grabbin’ me. Stay the hell away from me, Gravity.

Not letting go of the movements in the flowing caresses that emphasizes, and a stream of consciousness wants to drag me away from all this flash. Instead of holding on for near life, I release the claw that clamors for more more more. Washed away in a flood of love for the future’s glimpse of hope.

Grabbin’ me. Stop grabbin’ me.

Saving a time when the elevator of our nostalgias hangs on by a thread needing to be pushing through a hole and sewn in to our consciences which remain in unconsciousness. Dulcet sounds that create a cacophony in the clouds of remorse swim and sliver their way to the insatiable light fixtured and fashioned by man and his wiles. Never before seen on stage in the same obscene scene screened over and over and over again, senescing while sensing the seen serene scene’s sheen be cleaned by the same janitor contextualizing the time of day and month of year. Six syllables try to take me for a ride and my hearts starts to pound. Six syllables stay in my mind whispering like a scratched CD played on repeat replete with beliefs of emotions that ferret the true essence of what it means to. Echoes in my mind are retrograding intrusions in my life, dismissed as a falling star where the introverted sense of your self grips the back of my arm, clearing a path for the future’s entrance. There is no point at the top and no way to circumvent the gravity imposed upon us. It’s the way his love takes on a form that can only be described by this attraction that his body’s mass has to its gravity. An outstretched hand caresses the aire, and thus, denies gravity. With ideas swirling about in my head, I keep thinking that this gravity does not have a hold of me. I think that his gravity is nothing but a chuck of rotted iron(y). Paint chips on the edges that have lied in the sunlight for too long, circling and climbing to see out to the horizon of indisonance. In different turns, my eyes turn the page and walk away to the dark shadow providing protection from the rest of the sunlight being pulled toward me, as the spotlight warms up.

I am gravity.

Waiting, watching, wondering the hell is going on [literally], I keep twirling my arms around in a circle, hoping to escape this pull toward the ground. Grabbing. Grabbing aire as an oily rope that can’t lift you. You can’t be pulled. So you just keeping grabbing. Grabbing for your life. Grabbing so you don’t have to wait any longer. Hoping that this gravity is only temporary, so all the mass you carry around on your shoulders slows down and flutters away on a cool breeze. Swirling clouds of fog unfurling and expanding its horizons into the atmosphere as I make this clear. The clouds reach up to the sky to whisk their wisps of smoke away so as to avoid themselves dying. Under the same duress on this cloud of smoke reaching for the inevitable, seeing the world and all its glory as a well-timed, well-oiled machine whose purpose has yet to be imbued with anything worthwhile of its attention.

Screaming: “Stop, Gravity. Stop, Gravity. Stop gravity. Stop grabbing me. Stop grabbing me. Stop, Gravity. Gravity’s grabbing, having me. Gravity. Grabbin’ me. Having me have gravity as the grabbing is as gravity. Having me. Gravity. Grabbing me. Laughing me. Halving me. Having me grab gravity like savvily babbling about gravity.”

Writing on the chalkboard of the aire, hoping this scent catches the nostrils of someone who thinks, “This is unimaginable. I need a sensation that will put my mind to sleep and let my body live.” So attached to thought, no room of the sense and they get pushed out to the margins (with their back against the walls) hoping not to get cropped out of the final photo. I cheat on my Mind with My Body since they seem to hate each other.”

This aire, fire, water, and soil, the way that should be done more often: alone in the light. This is why I try to write into the aire, waiting for the wind.