The threading of a blanket is nonetheless made of many single paths. It is unclear what I mean by this, if it is literal or if what I mean is that I am lost. Or if both are true, and being lost is an action performed by the blanket, of which I am the object. What is clear is that, even in the darkest uncertainties of one's existence, there is a blanket, there is loss, and there are many threads.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Obituary in headlines
Colonel Feeds Boy Walnuts
Shells/Casings Litter Colonel's Stomach
Colonel Reclines with Boy Lapped on Chair
Brown, Tobacco Brown, Colors Chair
Tobacco and Gunpowder Stain Colonel's Fingers
Fingers Clutching Skull, Colonel Kisses Boy's Forehead
Boy Stained with Tobacco and Gunpowder
Colonel Survived by Chair, Boy, Stains
Posted by John D. at 7:31 PM 0 comments
Friday, April 5, 2013
How to read a poem
Alan Watts once wrote
that to describe
an experience
is to fail
to divide an inch,
an infinitely divisible inch.
It is pointless,
measureless,
meaningless,
impossible to clone
in words
the experience.
A ceramic mug
of spiced red tea
loses its hyena's jowls
in metaphor.
Love
loses its gut's imploding-star
gravity
somewhere between
O, V.
So what's left
for words
to say
is:
Life
is like words
and words are like
memories,
chasing
moments.
Posted by John D. at 10:17 AM 0 comments
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Your gray hour
In the world's approaching shadow,
from the sliver sun dusk,
wind flutters its pigeon-down
across your skin.
Only in this fleeting hour
does your migration's path ride
currents of air
with everything soon to dissolve
in the night.
Posted by John D. at 4:47 PM 0 comments
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Collisions at bedside
Twist this metal frame around;
if this is the closest I come
to being held,
at least let time slow let
physics twirl
as they may.
Implode glass;
if this is a story about stars,
let sunlight twinkle, twinkle,
across the shards,
and let your voice
be a soft narrative arcing wind.
Life driving toward some kind of
contact
any kind of
contact, violent
contact.
My favorite part is when our hands touch
and as I drift away you ask,
What would you like me to read tonight?
Posted by John D. at 7:01 PM 0 comments
Monday, April 1, 2013
Oral mother sky parable
The cloud looks like dry ice over the moon,
and this you say is your proof God is a tweed-
suited mourner with a pinwheel hat. Well, fine,
I'll say.
Someone better tell Him to wise
up.
Now the cloud
slips,
the moon
nude.
And you say, That
ain't no man's silver
tit.
Posted by John D. at 6:35 PM 0 comments