19 August 2007

Obsessively committed

In the spirit of Annie Dillard's Mornings Like This

Spoon-feed these new daydreams
the whole world’s breaking down.
I’m just trying to imagine a situation
in the rooms of my mind
‘cause every breath breathes
a little like this:
the great train robbery of my soul
is the way most dreamers die.
Are you drunk with the wine of God?
He kneels down and whistles to a fallen sparrow
I often was the same,
but maybe we’ve got it backwards.
Try to comprehend
(intuitively speaking)
the angels’ inferiors
dancing in the water.
It's the way it has to be—
a noose around my shadow,
begging for a light.

The outer edges of our room
leaning into you…
Oceans within reach,
we sail for free
all around the world without a name.
If my hand were taken hold of
(nobody knows for sure how long),
would I see regret to the last mile?
Carry me like a tune
in a chest with a key.
The light on our shoulders,
the clutter of my life,
can finger your way to the words.
Wake up dreaming
feigning coherence and calmness
through the ceiling of the stars.
I think I’ve lost it.

Your body down
just about to break,
catch at the altar—
the slip and the grip
leaves us at a loss for words.
The river will rise,
the bathtub full of wine.
I’m still waiting
to drink you from a paper cup.
We dream out loud in the night air
and there is no doubt,
in terms of buried treasure
(my soul up for sale),
maybe we’re not that far.

Love’s such a strange word.
The roses came crimson
stealing hundreds of bells
and a thousand ways to laugh.
Take your own sweet time
the last frontier is only
like the ghost of every
room in the universe:
too weak to dance, too strong to die.
Rip fiction from fact
you’ve let my lips move
there by the window
we can sigh
(out of the woods now),
breathing on a spark.
Only broken hearts can sing
and there’s blood left still to bleed.

Eumenides lead me here
like the catcher in the rye,
precarious with semantics.
A little lower than the angels
the moon-eyed fish
pulled the words back
(more than just clichés
we steal to grow inspired).
Write your name on the water
hold on through the winter
down to the letter.
Read Shel Silverstein.
The sidewalk bends to stare
in the backstreets of heaven.
Carry your story
like a rope swing from a tree
and fold the note.
Love is not a man’s invention.
Will it keep you guessing?
Fair enough:
set this old world free.

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