christmas at st. john's

so many catholic kids skip around with santa hats on their heads on the playground at this time of year.

everyone has a kickball in hand, but nobody's playing kickball.

four square is for the intellects.

dodgeball is for the jocks.

basketball is for the artists.

11788

I ran to the sky.

In a multitude of others. 

In a seperation from others.  In a road just as empty as it was crowded.

I ran towards them.

I had no feet.

No feeling.

No knowledge of movement, but movement that flew my body, rather soul, forward.

Onward, towards a closer goal than the one earthly presented.

I felt not that I was alone,

but i felt not together.

I was searching my own

and flying by His spirit.

I was inspired by their own outstretched victory and sweat.

The Shade and oh

the Trees.

The Families and oh

the Tables.

Oranges and Apples. The Rain they gave us.

All separate, but all, so one.

We ran together.  

Alone. 

Also, like a wandering bird in the streets, but still.

We ran together.

Walk

It's noon time and I've

finished my drawing

class of drawing draws 

me closwer to the fellow art buddies:

Laura, Ben, Lisa.  All with true remarks

and smarts out their stark eyes and

low-hum determination.

And

after class I walk with Sarah.  I follow her

and walk distantly among campus tulips and 

construction zone on the 

pavement.

I hadn't chosen the two dollar coffee, or the mufffin,

larger than life.  Sarah and I are still

walking and we're going to make coffee

at my house.

Friday's are care-free, casual and sometimes

misunderstood, but mostly comfortable and

bitter-sweet.

Even Bonnie seems like my lover and

Julio seems a good school boy.

Ah.

We are young, are we not?  How easy going

must we seem?  We will eat Great Harvest

and we will peel some oranges.

Knee

knee you

bend and then

you slide a   little

bit more to the left

more to the left than

you should.

 

ouch,

knee   you bend.

more to the right

and then

and then turn and swirl

a   little more.

a little    little    bit more

and ouch

sting.

can’t make it on

up

up

those stairs are too tall.

too tall to strain

you

knee.

sabbatical

I cannot write.

I cannot write.

I cannot write.

"Reality is a cliché

From which we escape by metaphor"

-Wallace Stevens

None of that really matters, but it let itself in [my head] for awhile.

It stayed awhile and asked me questions and I asked back.

It didn't make much sense to me, but I listened.

It didn't have much to do with me or my own thoughts.

No, my thoughts did not compare much to the line.

The line was it's own.

Comment moi.

Oui.

Comment moi.

Oui.

It is difficult to write about one thing when there are so many other things to write about as well!

 

"As the reason destroys, the poet must create"

-Wallace Stevens

I need to write.

I need to write.

I need to write.

And as in that need, I produce thought!

Thought: 

I want to live alone.

That does not mean I am lonely (would it, anyways?)

No, I have discovered how often I like time alone.

And how often I want space to myself.

How often I enjoy the early morning.

Oh, how often.

"Poetry increases the feeling for reality."

-Wallace Stevens

At times I wonder if I could only spend some time out.

"out"

away.

gone.

sabbatical.

goodness, i forgot. they do not pay me to go to school.

and it surely has not been seven years since i've been here.

[non] s e n s e

i am getting lost in brief moments

i am getting.getting.getting. l o s t

it shouldn't take so long to notice.

:smog city:

poets know

that writes love

and writers --- paint,

to poet beats.

and in the lonely lives of --

art is lost in --

Sky High Cities.

with elbows crossed,

they creep into,

each others lives and -- dream of!

sadder loves -- to spill upon,

in their own indifference's -- they cry out,

for inspiration,

and with the jam of--

their      last     nights loss 

they see the Ivory -- brighter today!

and in the lonely lives of--

art is lost -- in,

Sky High Cities.   

:Time:Moment:Air:Pause:Space:

Moment

 

A glance, a bit, rather,

In your direction,

Was in the mechanical,

Turning and cycling stage,

Of the transition         of my eye.

 

A moment in time was       paused,

For the purpose ---

Of making all things,

Like this        matter.

 

And when in such directions,

A reflex is made at     measured speed,

One finds time to reflect

And purposefully make note,

Not, your image, but the        break,

The line drawn                       in time,

To put down what was before,

And collect air for the after.

Bonjour Le Printemps, Je Veux Porter Toi.

In Affection

In affection won,

Born perfection.

In affliction one,

Sworn addiction.

Oatmeal

A single grain of sand to that of many believers is there. Dry in born splendor and light in weight while young. Further grown into perfect air pockets to deliver a low lullaby. Silver in the exchange of sugars, but a soft reassurance in the presence of durable textures. It mingles amongst the sweeter ones. It asks to stay and sticks like nectar on the best of spring days. In the saddest of senses, it is the best of friends.

Parlez-vous à mon coeur

We are but true signs of worth.

A picture.

We are but only living songs.

In the shadow of dusk.

In the most lowly of places.

We are but the people,

decorated love.