(no subject)
Can You See Yourself Falling In Love?
There is a mirror,
there,
right outside of here,
underneath the herring and family of geese,
the pump circulating the water
to a dull and murky brown.
A giant circle of smoke
when the ground pulls at the sky
and the fog is caught in the middle;
you can see anything
when you drive by
and slow down to glance at the undisturbed grace
of the air's gentle touch.
You can see
everything
if you stop
and walk with it.
A mirror on the wall
as I exit one room
into the next.
Above the sink
and in the melted sand
of the sliding shower door.
(I can draw pictures
and write words
on that steam glass)
They are there
as the traffic's frantic worry
roars and screeches
and
yells
yells
yells
at
with
and
behind me;
the sky on windshield.
There are mirrors
on
and
in
each of those coffee ceramics,
I can see the plants quiver
as the air machine is humming quietly
into its' ears
above
from caffeinated
below.
Even yet
this place
as the neck glances outward
(three wall-ward)
the people are doing
what they do,
and yet,
with the lights off
or at a set lulling illumination
the moon
or the sun
shines outside
from bottom
up
as waterbirds glide like stick butter
on a warming slope.
The spoons and forks and knives
move close (jealous)
beneath the warmth
of the table napkin
and I sit in the middle of it all;
smoke curls like a lonely finger.
Some tell fairytold lies wishfully;
the faces of others
as I see ourselves.
Oh!-
how function ceases to get in the ways
we (they) go after the curtain draws deep shadows on itself,
in it's own tangled mess of curves
and elegant folds.
Behind
someone is pulling a calloused rope
up and
down,
up and down,
they open and close.
They are everywhere;
mirrors.
Often the throat is prone
to feel the soft tightening
of invisible hands and fingers
with two thumbs
working
working
working on it
in conjunction with the head,
leaving nothing tangible,
though
breathes strained and short
are a familiar comodity;
Above
me
over
the
ground.
Often too,
though not as much,
but more frequent this past month
(give or take days)
(I still see your face that first evening)
I am allowed difference.
.It lays between houses against home,
.it paves midnight from morning,
.it holds acquaintance up to companion,
.and finally
it shows love
from
everything
else.
.
the keys can creep and penetrate
certain locks
when the grass cools the earth
and makes shoes shiny,
quietly,
so not to agitate or disturb
the steady rhythmic chirping
of crickets
and
the birds that find it far more suitable
to be up
as close after daybreak.
But houses tell half-truths
when under a fierce fanning interrogation.
The home smiles
and brings you much closer
much further than your arrival,
they enjoy the single swaying light
projecting rays
off of the mirror-window.
.
The streets can be different like burning cities
along granite roads,
unkind
and unfamiliar,
amoral but with a curious driving guilt
like fog above street lamps
playing fiery morning coming.
But they can be kind, too.
They can be peaceful grace,
anticipating things along for you
and letting the songs inside of vehicles
soar,
absolutely soar
out all opened windows
and through the ones keeping the warm.
Different days break
or sustain
in harmony with the soul.
.
Faces,
oh
they smile in love and joy
and anger and absolute atrocity
when the eyes feel against them
as tiny red storms of electricity,
subjective calamities! - all!
They embrace less than a calm warm season
and much less
than a cold one.
Stupid faces
carrying
stupid people
to
stupid places
to talk
the
stupid
shit.
I would wish this atrocity
of plastic and rubber cigarette filter people
on only my enemies,
which I have none,
so then
the pleasant midnight women
who specialize of wallet-deep compassion;
they for them.
It is possible
I suppose
to grin ways through harder ways
while maintaining a humbled glass of genuine humanity,
and those green trees of a stubborn dying summer
are warm
in the coldest crowding,
worrying
on stable steel built bridges,
upset
during a compromise of character.
But true
and real
real real real real!
They scream from hilltops!-
and atop vehicles!
They are there
when everyone else
erects fleshy statues in their own place.
.
And love...
yes.
It takes everything out of itself
and turns to whirling lines of color
and though things have been blended,
compacted
into new eyes
to new ways of seeing,
a satisfying comfort,
though lite with worry,
hold you,
hold me,
as the thing climbs on conveyor belts
to a place where one can see very clearly
all that is then below.
And love...
yes.
It sees me
in all the places where same things
and people
are shown
to the self.
And the self
can be many things
all in one.
And love...
yes.