and we’re out there standing on the beach and my toes know sand is fairy dust, and I trust my heart to this evening breeze and she’s teasing me with this closed paren -thesis of gold and so i’ve gone and told the earth i love her once again.
but see, she’s a tricky one (this earth, this moon). just when i think her murmur’d shine enough, she disappears too soon.
::
I’ve just come from a couple nights in Lake Tahoe with my Love. This is prompted by Poetic Asides.
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart:
when you sing in your whisky voice when the world is mud- luscious, the little bird by snow and stir by still when the world is puddle-wonderful he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
since feeling is first, in every language even deafanddumb , i carry your heart with me(i carry it in moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
and what i want to know is who pays any attention to the syntax of things far and wee
Fleeter be they than dappled dreams and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
sky lavender and cornerless, the children guessed(but only a few are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
all by all and deep by deep here is the deepest secret nobody knows but the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
when by now and tree by leaf paler be they than daunting death
And death i think is no parenthesis running from marbles and piracies and it’s riding the echo down
for life’s not a paragraph while Spring is in the world and anyone lived in a pretty how town (sleep wake hope and then)they laugh, leaning back in my arms
how do you like your blue-eyed boy Mister Death she laughed his joy she cried his grief
sun moon stars rain and whatever a sun will always sing is you will never wholly kiss you;
(though love be a day and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).
I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat how children are apt to forget to remember how much said she than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
.
::
This was a time-consuming BLAST. It’s a Cento, cobbled solely from poems by E.E. Cummings. For day 30 for NaPoWriMo.
We stop against our better judgement, even though we’ve barely got a dime between us and we shoulda used it for laundry because your last t-shirt is starting to smell like that rest stop two towns back.
The black black pavement just keeps on moving and that dot-to-dot line is a golden ellipses to the next thing but we don’t know what that is and so maybe we should just keep cranking up the Stones and keep on rolling.
But we’re on E, see? And it doesn’t stand for everything or anything, really, except that everything’s a mess and even with a full tank I’d be empty of common sense and still endlessly edging myself into eventual eclipse.
And maybe here’s where I get out. Get off this crazy ride and hide and find myself again right here in the middle of… Kansas? Nebraska? Where are we? So maybe not. Not quite yet. But it’s fuel for thought.