lettrist

the sight or vision ails
and rejoices seamlessly
by this body, a child seamless

dress me with your melancholic articles
clean this breath with your ads and pitfalls
and coming home

i have seen the pragmatic river
and it carries my name
the family

will it always be this wandering
away, to become a lonely vessel
hard pressed, then, to find supposed answers

the ones given to me by moonlight
and fanciful dreams
this cavern, i have come for rest

by no arms, nor medicine
dragged around
drugged and lifeless

for inside, a tomb is carried and filled
and to empty, is to heal
by our mouths

filled with butterflies, this chest, cocoons
and dynamite
we destroy instead of disassembling

the look, the awareness, the legacy,
the possibility of work and care,
careful trespass,

walking armless with no home to build or destroy,
harmless, these arms
there is no will to succeed

but the will for intention
the will to survive
a crusted foundation

brought to light by every twist
and exchange, every fire
and every frozen block of ice

build we must, or die,
die we must to the muscles which strain
and seek this urban ease with abandon

i have wandered there enough

he held it to my lips to drink, i took it slowly

the forest around, weeping

the eyes that frisk and partially drown,

the heart seeing nothing but ambiance and soft hands.

i can no longer watch this summer pass, for it has already begun,
to pass
and the strangled nights, the happy nights on the stoop or a
train ride to Trenton
marks the year
as your blood upon my tearful eye.

let us all rejoice.

why hello summer...


what have you in store?

it is what i put in my mouth that destroys me, this body, slowly...

it is what i put in my mouth that will heal me, this body, slowly...




from the box of truths:

things that are broken CAN be fixed, or turned into something else...

three years and a child

recalling not last october, mind you, it is nearly July and the wisp of difference is grand.

saying what must be said is a luxury i have had for so long, but have quieted in the distillate regions of this particular corpse.

could i speak on change or chance or witnessing beauty and devastation?  could i speak on climate and landscape and tuning in or tuning out or feeling lifeless.

it is all an unmanageable dream and i fear not how i will sit in my apparent contemplation until i die.  never quite relenting, never quite becoming, never quite speaking or commiting to anything at all.

except being non commital.

if i began to type what it is i have seen and thought and heard and been around you would call me a cloack or a bird or a flighty sparrow's dusty wing.

but i am not any of these things and i fear i am not not any of these things.

sometimes i feel i could drift away and be forgotten



to myself


never to return.


strange enough, i have particular reminders which nag my questionable back and i consider roots.



can i look back into other days when my world was a different masterpiece?  disparring elements rising and passing away, people, themes, ideas, longing, connection, time, work, travel, energy, dependence, knowledge, lack of knowledge, the list barricades my front door!



but to build a house
it is a silly strange dream

my voice is pacing slowly around the room like a dove.



oh please forgive me today for everything i have ever done

be unforgiving


k