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Literature Text
it seems that I have lost
my senses,
dripping corduroy blue:
a glass of condescension
and I'll deny everything you've
said.
somewhere between the pastry paint
and the religious
beads of sweat
from your lips to your navel
I've trapped myself
in a cage I lost the keys to.
this is where insanity begins:
too much attention
wasted on the wallpaper
and hours spent meeting anything
but your eyes.
as i'm cradled in the circulation
within alcoholic corks
and blue headlights
your voice tapping at my senses,
your lips replacing mine.
the secret is that I cannot do enough screaming
to drown you out
and I can't be quiet enough
to let you walk away.
my senses,
dripping corduroy blue:
a glass of condescension
and I'll deny everything you've
said.
somewhere between the pastry paint
and the religious
beads of sweat
from your lips to your navel
I've trapped myself
in a cage I lost the keys to.
this is where insanity begins:
too much attention
wasted on the wallpaper
and hours spent meeting anything
but your eyes.
as i'm cradled in the circulation
within alcoholic corks
and blue headlights
your voice tapping at my senses,
your lips replacing mine.
the secret is that I cannot do enough screaming
to drown you out
and I can't be quiet enough
to let you walk away.
Literature
.
i avoid the eyes of people when i'm nervous
stare at spaces in between their eyelids
and let the conversation fade
or dissolve.
i don't know where to let my eyes rest
when you appear
in my head
around my bones
there's nowhere to look
except through you
Literature
Confluence
According to the old religion, a scribe
must bathe in natural running water
before she draws what is dictated to her,
because writing's just like cleaning a mirror,
she says, it's like rearranging stains
left on wholesome rivers. For three nights,
I drew geometric shapes in the margins;
I had been instructed to take notes on
the underside of snow, and how it colonized
the lithosphere, musically and without hurt.
It felt like a call, but it wasn't a calling.
The paper was made in Himalayan foothills
by a woman who had cleansed knots from fibrous bark
and dipped her bleached hands into boiling water.
I mangled the page into a cottage, then
Literature
reticent
no one seems to realize
i don't talk enough.
i could talk mountains
and valleys
rivers and lakes
canyons and forges
i could talk cliffs
and you back from one
i could talk the way
tape screeches when
it is pulled apart
i could talk red skies
and bleed history
taste music and
touch words
i could breathe silence
and hold sound,
cup my ear to the streets
and hear the sea.
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Comments18
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Excellent collab!! WOW!! You guys are just enough different to foil each other perfectly. That's the best kind of collaborating. The last 2 stanzas are my favourite.