A Potpourri of Expressions in Word...

Since: Dec 12

Location hidden

#488 Feb 11, 2013
BrilliAnt wrote:
<quoted text>
I know now
I know now that I love you
I know now that I love you because you are WONDERFUL
I know now
I know now
I know now how
I know now how because you took the time to love me first
I know now
I know now
I know now how I can make it better
I know now how I can make it better for which you taught me
I know now
Keep Writing Baby
Now you know
Thank you for your very kind words my friend they are very touching. Yes, now I know:):):):)


The Gap, Australia

#489 Feb 13, 2013
Headlights light up a weed or cone of blossoms lifting off into shadows
driven by the demarcation of time.
They are forever back there as we go forward in the undifferentiated dark.

Part of the trouble is the echo of objects just past and to a lesser degree,
those about to arrive.

They fade out slowly
those conical bright shapes out from the field and across the dashboard.

He had walked into; fallen into the truck crossing the road.
Later he had fallen into the water near the pier.
Earlier he had decided or he hadn’t decided or it had shaped itself around him.

It’s hard to see the sunflowers in the dark but the dark center surrounded
by the many gray petals is immediately clear, despite shadows,
despite tricks played on the eye.

It seems more than obvious that nothing particular is about to happen.

When the painters paint the white line down the middle of the road do they see
how it shines in the near dark nearly upon us.

The Gap, Australia

#490 Feb 13, 2013
The Stars in an Alternate Universe

Were promised to me in the secret language
of if only. I had a falling

asleep of us in that space where we exist
best, all pear

orchards and humid cafes. We wandered
miles of cotton ocean, deltas

of all the traditions we made smirking eyes
at, fingered the clumsy

phrases we used to undress our nerves, toyed
with bodies hedged in poinsettia.

Stare at a bleeding: notice the shape
and the beauty, the hue of its petals

and all it evokes in my memories. Pull it
from the ground and hold it

close to you. Evoke for a second the smell
of my hair and close your eyes:

remember the bullish whisper of your awe
at the minotaur we built between us.

The Gap, Australia

#491 Feb 13, 2013
Deep down I don’t like ash

it is too intransigent
its manner conveys
a gray enmity

toward whatsoever lies close to a flame
it turned even fire, its own mother,
to ash

nonetheless to ash I will entrust myself

it leaves no muddy footprints
on the body

lightly you are scattered
like powder that has remained
on the face of your biography

to ash I will entrust myself

dirt is too great a burden

you can’t breathe
compressed from above too by those flowerpots
your family brings—
also heavy with all the water they drink in

you are chilled through by humidity
archenemy of your neck

but let’s suppose you do want to feel the pain
even if you don’t write it down
it will be doubly wasted

where would you write it

this blackboard
is not sky
and what remains
is not chalk.

To ashes I will give myself.

You see the world differently
when scattered from above

you breathe birds
inhale the scent of mystery
of Sacrament deeply
like ether in cotton
and like cotton it absorbs you

clouds will carry
your mementos for you
rain, umbrella, medicine, cigarettes

let’s not forget kisses
all these charred remains
in any case
indisputably through the ashes

on your charred remains
again you have lived
and again you have written
the very same things.

The Gap, Australia

#492 Feb 14, 2013
We make a thing we marvel
and learn to worry.

through the red glass of a prophet’s robe
makes us red.

We see the horse return the hour before storm
in distress.

We distress.

The thing we make
learns to marvel light.

We think worry is a robe
we can outgrow.

In the mirror we see our bodies without robes

It storms.

The prophet marvels at the horse
that spoke.

The Gap, Australia

#493 Feb 14, 2013

SANCTUARY where we don’t have to

SANITIZE hands or words or knives, don’t have to use a

SCALE each morning, worried we take up too much space. I

SCAN my memory of baba talking—her on

SCREEN answering a question (how are you?) I would ask and ask from behind the camera, her face changing with each repetition as she tried to watch the football game. She doesn’t know this is the beginning of my

SCRIBING life: repetition and change. A human face at the seaport and a home getting smaller. Let’s

SEARCH my father’s profile: a moustache black and holding back a

SECRET he still hasn’t told me,

SECTION of the couch that’s fallen a bit from her repeated weight,

SECTOR of the government designed to keep her from flying. She kept our house

SECURE except from the little bugs that come with dried herbs from Persia. She gives

SECURITY officers a reason to get off their chairs. My father is not afraid of


SEIZE a wild pigeon off a busy street or watch

SEIZURES unfold in his sister’s bedroom—the FBI storming through. She said use wood sticks to hold up your protest signs then use them in

SELF-DEFENSE when their horses come, her eyes

SENSITIVE when she passes advice to me, like I’m hers

SEQUEL, like we’re all a

SERIAL caught on Australian satellite TV. When you tell someone off, she calls it

SERVICING. When I stand on her feet, I call it

SHADOWING. She naps in the afternoon and wakes with

SHEETLINES on her face, her hair upright, the sound of

SHELLS (SPECIFY)—the sound of mussel shells on the lip of the Barrier Reef crunching beneath her feet. She’s given me


SHIELDING, shown it’s better to travel away from the

SHOAL. Let them follow you she says from somewhere in Townsville waiting for me. If she feels a

SHORT FALL she doesn’t tell me about it.

The Gap, Australia

#494 Feb 14, 2013
The thought insists upon itself. The dead
body of it, what you have put together:

The hillside won’t make sense.
You run through the trees, but the trees
lead nowhere.

Didn’t the sky come down on you like.
Didn’t you think you saw.

The irrational forest,
your stupid mouth,
a breath stillborn.

Define: Lake.
Ink stain. The cold, cold water.
The heart’s slow beat.

There is no imagining anymore. You awake
and everything is flatter. You go outside
and there is nothing to see.

The Gap, Australia

#495 Feb 14, 2013
In the Cordage of the Municipality
The aperture of dawn breaks
over the government lake
embalming our long apprenticeship
to dust stalled in the tertiary gloss.

The scrutiny of a man between needs.
The wanting less to be oneself
than to hold one’s place—
to insist sincerity is only
the desire to have said
what one has said.

The rooms replenish themselves
with a stable of objects:
an apple core browning in the drain,
button shirts hung in the limpid forms of bodies elsewhere,
in a stable of rooms which relay their tedium
like figurations in a language made of a single word.

The city remains and the city is grammar.

Radial, take the line of the road.

Take the spray paint marking
the plots of homes unbuilt.

Here where birds nest at the dry bottom of the swimming pool.

Take the water leftover.

Leave before asking of it to remain.

The film of papery snow.

The plane of sight stretches west
and the West ends.

The love of the sun-blank afterward
is the love of it ending.

The Gap, Australia

#496 Feb 14, 2013
The wind steadies the loose end of a scarf,
the spell of the wind......

steadies our enthusiasm for landscape—

bread-white hills smothered in winter
and the tops of trees plugged with light and wind—

their leaves, by the handful, expectorating soot—

Main Street whistles another twelve bars of silence:
No cars today / No deliveries / No wind—

In the deli a man turns down the thermostat,
turns out the hinges of the display-window
glass dulled with a pollen of pale steam—

It is the precision of rock and bread and honey,
your crosses of sunlit sooner-or-later,
how you await the apocalyptic apostolicism of wind—

It is the sun in the trees retreating from the wind—

Maia, Electra, Taygete, Alcyone, Celaeno, Sterope—

Merope, gummed in twilight, still bright....
as the wind blossoming
in the center of the Earth—

The Gap, Australia

#497 Feb 14, 2013
This dream of a bird strange, tangled up.

A hybrid: a bunting
and an owl with those sad wet eyes, clacking bill, moony

face, feathered with all the shades of indigo, lichen, gray, lazuli
rainbow of oil as if dipped in, iridescent, painted like susans

and predatory, of song and coyness, perch, a flit, hover, bark a coo
a cry, warble, an undulating sigh. This bird tangled, netted,

is trapped against the screen clinging, panting, can fly
but without joy, can see, but through a cloud, a fog

of its own breathing. Carnivore, you want to put it in your mouth.
Just a slip of, a pocket of, an envelope of skin, feather, bone.

Hypnotize with smoothing the wild, the fussing and gnashing.
Its feet unperch and it sleeps, unblinking other, uncanny

when the unreal becomes real. Pluck the suffocation out.
Lay the bird down in a scattering of dun-colored leaves

which then become bird, like animation but more a dream
brought to life, the frightening of what is known and long familiar.

The Gap, Australia

#498 Feb 14, 2013
On a back road of ‘Bamako
la Coquette’

—sunset a Coleman;
Pack-Away lantern

its 4 D alkaline
batteries shot—

a little kid tapping
a skinny tire

with a stick,
then he stopped:

kyrielle of bulbuls

brushfire smoke
from a laterite pit—

I saw
that he was pointing

what he was pointing at.....

breathe this rancid

alkaline smoke;

brushfire sunset

geocaching an inflection
poor richard and the printer's devil...

seeing double:
intoxication migraine concussion voluntary; algorithmic schizophrenia

for pity and for poetry's sake;

check_your_ pulse
for your sake....

for the clothing of delight and fearful symmetry

for the gesture that precedes language
full stop.

morse staccato Da(dictus)da
uniform surreal static;
kyrie eleison


The Gap, Australia

#499 Feb 14, 2013
Too bad about the plate, the shadowbox, the twisted book.
The universe conspired, a felony against your face
in search of the tiny light that carves such things,
a grand piano to play, a poor painting by Paul Stanley
resembling the way I feel today,
full of rhododendrons half rotten sweet.

We walked through the dead cells twice, clubbed foot,
until I had to concede, I’ll call out sick,
though the sickness is ill—it’s the still weeds of guilt
I’ve been trained to feed with each yawn,
every ruffled stir I tamp down with glances
at the working sky for any sign of a white moon sweet rot.

I know it when I hear it, but did you see what I said,
the moth of my words tattered, a harp banging
at the bulb of this cold blossomed forest?

I bend on glass knee looking up; you are someone else too,
when you want. We are one bird behind one bird,
one bird behind one laughter, one breath behind one rib,
one silence behind one handwritten mask,
one scalp behind one spine, one dawn behind one skull
opened by one bullet, one skin, not us, then another,
with long bones reaching one question,
the one certainty we know each other with, embarrassed
or proud, snowed in or lullabied, skulls throughout.

The Gap, Australia

#500 Feb 14, 2013
Come practice your whorish gestures in the graveyard, Ramona.
Come sharpen your teeth on the tombstones.
Cough up the roots if you know what’s good for you.
When coyotes are teaching their young to howl,
ghoulies rehearse the Courtship of Wristbones.
When you hear clawing at the square of styrofoam
serving as a window in the caretaker’s shack,
then you must count each step going up to the mausoleum,
and my ghost will appear in the churchyard.
He’ll kiss the back of your knee in the moonlight.
These are not promises, but eerie enough, regardless.
You must count out loud, Ramona, the steps,
because this is the time to watch what eats you.
I used to love the way the wind whistled through your teeth
when you drove the back roads, above your legal limit.
I used to have these poses. They turned into habits.
I used to love the folks that loved me.
And they’ve been sad ones, my years since being dead.
And they’ve been coming, the folks who claim to love me.
And I hardly recognize myself. There aren’t mirrors, as such.
The drum section rattles it out, down by the high school.
I hear them, or is it the caretaker drunk in his wheelbarrow?
You used to play the wheelbarrow, I recall.
You used to wash your underwear in the sink.
Above ground, the wind whistles through the tombstones.
Below ground, the wind sleeps and has colors.
Below ground, colors are how I dream of making my comeback.
There’s a difference between a white dress and the white dress.
You used to strip off the white dress in a highly professional manner.
You used to dangle the remote, and I’d come get it.
You used to skip church. You used to skip dinner parties.
Now you’ve been seen hoisting condoms from the pharmacy.
There are twelve condoms to a pack. A pack of lovers mills outside your door.
A pack of the dead are heading toward the showers.
A pack of dead lovers is referred to as "a creep" of dead lovers.
More than one dead lover is weeping. But oh, how it was me who loved you then.
You with your cracked lips, with your love and your otherdefilements kept alive in a bucket.
When I first died, I stole a lock of your hair while you slept.
Now I dip it in ink when the mood strikes,
and the times you visit and kneel so pretty on the grass above me,
that’s not scratching you hear.

It’s me writing.......

The Gap, Australia

#501 Feb 14, 2013
It must be home- and slowly grown,
allowed to long linger hearthside

alongside heart, blood, bone,
getting good and warm. Do not be

thrown by the erratic exotic
appearing full-flowered, fully blown,

and doing the trick as well, or better,
from a seed wild-sewn.

Extremes are far too easy—
be they benignant or malign.

The ideal’s a rogue affinity:
the invasive-but-contained one that,

though exiled from natal soil—its sole
known source, might just turn up

playing mouth organ for another
throat, breast, lung. Another voice.

The Gap, Australia

#502 Feb 14, 2013
a wholeness, I answered

of a new garden they dreamed its winter,

everything electric, kinetic, he was walking

through it, where she followed, where she went.

only the language, unsorted, lifted in a wind that

brought nothing, the absence of gardens she was

walking, where he followed, where he went. that

the signified could not lighten, that neither was

carrying it. an impossible dance enmeshed the

lights, the lenses, where its winter expanded,

where it fell away. that the fallen world, was not

theirs, that the voices each carried, tangled, in

the spaces they opened, where a sun could have

been. only everything, was infinite, he could no

longer, celebrate its landscape, she could no

longer, include a sprinkling of stars, the edge of

morning. that the risen world, was not theirs, he

was walking, where she followed, where she went.

an impossible music lifted, a further music, one

that returned, with the absence of music. the ends

of dream narratives spread out into the blankness,

words, letters dissociating, vestiges of

themselves, they were walking where it followed,

where it went. everything insubstantial,

potential, each to be written again, to be dreamed

again, each one disappearing apart/together.

Since: Dec 12

Location hidden

#503 Feb 14, 2013

Listen to the inner being that resides inside you

Absorb her energy

So that you may be renewed

Release the negative energy back to the Universe

It will find exactly where it should be


It is not with you

Love yourself unconditionally

For it is not promised that others will

Do not place your self worth in others

Rather in yourself

For when you place it in others

They will dictate your Peace at their discretion


Not everyone has your best interest at heart

The Gap, Australia

#504 Feb 14, 2013
Check_ Your_ Pulse wrote:
Listen to the inner being that resides inside you
Absorb her energy
So that you may be renewed
Release the negative energy back to the Universe
It will find exactly where it should be
It is not with you
Love yourself unconditionally
For it is not promised that others will
Do not place your self worth in others
Rather in yourself
For when you place it in others
They will dictate your Peace at their discretion
Not everyone has your best interest at heart
I have never fit the vision of another's life !

Parallel Time
stretches into diminishing
Its lines narrow
like roads in the distance
squeezing living spaces in between

We move between the lines
between narrowing lines

Obeying orders
doing the right thing
keeping up appearances
between the lines

Loves/struggles/mercies/justic e
glorious infamies
sacraments for eyeless gods
unmoved before unseen tears
between narrowing lines

Gradually more compact
lives receding
we move with purpose
without remembering why

Near the end
one at a time now
pressed forward by relentless crush
from generations behind
no answers
for some—no questions

Ever obedient
herding through the narrowing lines
each in turn
to the blade and hook

The first thing is to cut off the feet

The Gap, Australia

#505 Feb 18, 2013
I see a light beneath my door,
and I know what it's shining for.
I'm lying on my bed
while visions in my head
and in my heart
cascade and dart
like anxious fireflies
whose presence there denies
my peaceful sleeping;
they are softly weeping
glowing tears for me!
I plainly see the light
in darkness of my restless night.
it murmurs to me
that i'll soon be free to walk on air
without a care,
to forget what pain is
as I hear
the faintest melody--
angelic symphony on high
to serenade me as I die.
beyond the clouds,
where splendid peace and light enshrouds
the wandered soul,
my story is retold
by god to me

...as my eternity...

The Gap, Australia

#506 Feb 18, 2013
Almost seven years of light in darkness

rising from rags to riches,

opportunity befriending passion,

yet numbness still resides.

Aches and pains of emptiness

gnawing at my pride,

insecurity clings like a needy child

begging for crumbs of comfort.

Elated distraction's

devour reasons upon arrival,

dreams held in captivity,

as reality suffers sleep deprivation.

The person I long to be

is reaching out

to overwhelming despair

as hopelessness circles high above.

The Gap, Australia

#507 Feb 18, 2013
The rhetorical machine

masters styles of regurgitation,

reciting decades of yesterday's news.

The skilled listener

ever absorbs emotions spilled,

rewarded by gratification and vast insight.

The mind must be still before we can listen or speak effectively.

Hearing is a gift and listening 's a skill.

Most will never notice.

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