Burning Traces
I.
I own nothing because I have accepted everything.
The bottle, the ash, sex, song, garbage,
the morning succumbing to noon,
the rush of people, stories tragic and otherwise, the music
of moments.
Sleep or lack of, bliss or otherwise, rising to meet these things,
all of these stake the same claim.
Ecology contains every atom and distributes them equally.
There is no stomachache.
There is no ineptitude.
With solace I contain the company of all things.
In the company of all I find solace.
I embody indifference with passion.
I contain the expelled with repulsion.
I soak the mundane, electrified by its irony taste.
I shut out the stars drinking the air and drunk set out to clarify.
II.
Some days we are exhausted and perfection is easy
while fingers dance, voices sooth and sing.
Some days we are drunkards:
blinking at dusty neon signs, pool sticks, floors of cigarettes,
with calloused hands folded over.
Some evenings we are warm curled into the hair and thighs of a woman,
bed sheets, breasts, and the humming of vents at dawn.
Sometimes we are revolting sidetracked narcissistic, and grasping.
We are ( I am) a collection bursting busy being born and dieing.
Either way: I wonder how life can contain
suicide
and
ecstasy
simultaneously.
III.
So we begin with the dawn of humanity progress and knowledge
all things contained are only ideas and ideas are passed through the ages.
Through; windows, warmth, movement or work.
It is acknowledged in the builders' hands objects raised.
It is acknowledged in mothers raining milk, subtle and imbibed.
It is acknowledged in this wine dance.
It is acknowledged in the monk or fry cook exploring grease and longing.
It is acknowledged in branches casting silhouettes with soft sighing
extending through – understanding it's own evolution as broken
spaces
culled together.
The whole mysterious tremor spurting orgasmic toe-clenching eyes over space.
(Let it go)
It is acknowledged in this glass sugar coated shaped by light and the understanding of “this” as just this.
(Let it go)
The evolution of sound series of stressed syllables condensed to convey a thought.
(Or non thoughts
let it go)
It is contained in fragments left on dishes, solidified with time.
(Let it go)
God: the whole fantastic oversoul contracting.
(Let it go)
The body of yours or mine, great forms, blades of grass storing agony or longing.
(LET IT GO)
The politics of dance, cathedrals of ego rising like brick projects full of tears.
(LET IT GO)
IV.
Whole histories in minute particulars (petite – sensations)
like hips / footsteps / lips pulling in atoms,
(they contain microbes dating back to the first dawn whatever that is)
Rhythms sloshing with speech of simple talk:
“How are you?”
“Good!”
The whole play of it included also in the lack there of pushing and pulling growing and wasting.
Moments are all we've got!
V.
Distractions surround.
Even the wise ones need them.
The fly seeks the light.
VI.
Symbols and communication the democratic ideal which is older than the word itself and all words are pointless yet alive.
Welcome as the coat which recognizes the cold.
Welcome as the old empty minded attributes clean and open.
I have no fear of my humanity or yours.
I have no want but for naked honesty for the souls cowering in dank rooms full of suspicion watching time chew its' own tongue.
The hot density of worry which forms at the base only by distinguishing only by weighing the heart with the heavy material of claims.
The cloth which drapes over the magnitude, is woven into the stars,
every ripple touches everything every dream sighs and releases the form,
every understanding tarnished until we accept:
like moss on a tree trunk,
the importance of decay.
The importance of sound sustained by the glass curved clear and distorted.
I own nothing because I have accepted everything.
The bottle, the ash, sex, song, garbage,
the morning succumbing to noon,
the rush of people, stories tragic and otherwise, the music
of moments.
Sleep or lack of, bliss or otherwise, rising to meet these things,
all of these stake the same claim.
Ecology contains every atom and distributes them equally.
There is no stomachache.
There is no ineptitude.
With solace I contain the company of all things.
In the company of all I find solace.
I embody indifference with passion.
I contain the expelled with repulsion.
I soak the mundane, electrified by its irony taste.
I shut out the stars drinking the air and drunk set out to clarify.
II.
Some days we are exhausted and perfection is easy
while fingers dance, voices sooth and sing.
Some days we are drunkards:
blinking at dusty neon signs, pool sticks, floors of cigarettes,
with calloused hands folded over.
Some evenings we are warm curled into the hair and thighs of a woman,
bed sheets, breasts, and the humming of vents at dawn.
Sometimes we are revolting sidetracked narcissistic, and grasping.
We are ( I am) a collection bursting busy being born and dieing.
Either way: I wonder how life can contain
suicide
and
ecstasy
simultaneously.
III.
So we begin with the dawn of humanity progress and knowledge
all things contained are only ideas and ideas are passed through the ages.
Through; windows, warmth, movement or work.
It is acknowledged in the builders' hands objects raised.
It is acknowledged in mothers raining milk, subtle and imbibed.
It is acknowledged in this wine dance.
It is acknowledged in the monk or fry cook exploring grease and longing.
It is acknowledged in branches casting silhouettes with soft sighing
extending through – understanding it's own evolution as broken
spaces
culled together.
The whole mysterious tremor spurting orgasmic toe-clenching eyes over space.
(Let it go)
It is acknowledged in this glass sugar coated shaped by light and the understanding of “this” as just this.
(Let it go)
The evolution of sound series of stressed syllables condensed to convey a thought.
(Or non thoughts
let it go)
It is contained in fragments left on dishes, solidified with time.
(Let it go)
God: the whole fantastic oversoul contracting.
(Let it go)
The body of yours or mine, great forms, blades of grass storing agony or longing.
(LET IT GO)
The politics of dance, cathedrals of ego rising like brick projects full of tears.
(LET IT GO)
IV.
Whole histories in minute particulars (petite – sensations)
like hips / footsteps / lips pulling in atoms,
(they contain microbes dating back to the first dawn whatever that is)
Rhythms sloshing with speech of simple talk:
“How are you?”
“Good!”
The whole play of it included also in the lack there of pushing and pulling growing and wasting.
Moments are all we've got!
V.
Distractions surround.
Even the wise ones need them.
The fly seeks the light.
VI.
Symbols and communication the democratic ideal which is older than the word itself and all words are pointless yet alive.
Welcome as the coat which recognizes the cold.
Welcome as the old empty minded attributes clean and open.
I have no fear of my humanity or yours.
I have no want but for naked honesty for the souls cowering in dank rooms full of suspicion watching time chew its' own tongue.
The hot density of worry which forms at the base only by distinguishing only by weighing the heart with the heavy material of claims.
The cloth which drapes over the magnitude, is woven into the stars,
every ripple touches everything every dream sighs and releases the form,
every understanding tarnished until we accept:
like moss on a tree trunk,
the importance of decay.
The importance of sound sustained by the glass curved clear and distorted.
Dishwasher
Sometimes when asked my vocation,
I answer “dishwasher”.
I learn more about the soul
From a stranger smoking wet
Cigarettes on a street corner.
Or the hooker who perfected
The five minuet trick,
Who taught me economics.
I wash dishes and listen
To the girls gossip:
About who is fat or ugly or high or strung out.
And I can’t stomach it.
So I keep the coffee hot
Watching the quick dance
Of consumption.
The history of it all.
Conversations matching the sweet
Cups of electric radio.
Everything still and bright,
Just like the moment before death.
And I watch or listen,
Distinctive hum of cycles,
Dots forever strewn from light to light,
The madness of wage, drifting trough this life….
Silent and aware.
I answer “dishwasher”.
I learn more about the soul
From a stranger smoking wet
Cigarettes on a street corner.
Or the hooker who perfected
The five minuet trick,
Who taught me economics.
I wash dishes and listen
To the girls gossip:
About who is fat or ugly or high or strung out.
And I can’t stomach it.
So I keep the coffee hot
Watching the quick dance
Of consumption.
The history of it all.
Conversations matching the sweet
Cups of electric radio.
Everything still and bright,
Just like the moment before death.
And I watch or listen,
Distinctive hum of cycles,
Dots forever strewn from light to light,
The madness of wage, drifting trough this life….
Silent and aware.