baby thought she wanted to cry
but all she needed was to yawn.
a color of the sky shot and framed
drive along the road, maybe rather quickly, with the wind
and the background blurred with speed, comes his voice
narrating the hills over which his fingers are gliding, hovering
on her skin, small moles that make for the clumps of wood,
her eyes glinting blue and wet from the morning or something happier:
the bright spots of oceans being seen. and with the crush of an allegory
a blackout of the screen.
we begin again with the telephone and its receiver's coils,
tracing the source, this time unseen, and the message, unheard,
we jump-cut it, two times, or three, never a body, always the line
being moved. we'll set up the camera in front of the porch and point it
out across the field, and while he talks about sexual trees, we'll have nothing.
on spring and frailty and skies and baby leaves we place a human,
a small one, but a menacing giant to the blossoms she is tearing up
in the grip of her tiny, chubby hands. track the shot to the raw petal fragments
falling, and remain stationary, watching inexperienced destruction.
i do not know what to do with MEMORY LOVES TIME and vandalism,
the metaphysical highway graffiti. bold and black on white? or ignore it altogether?
there is not enough music in our narrator's voice, so let's not try to revive him and fail, let's drown him,
stream radio noise in the back until he asks us if Time loves Memory back.
to which we white-out, and maybe the residue of the contrast will stay,
let the viewer see what we mean if we mean anything at all.
for the dream and stained sheets i see slow-motioned puncturing, but it's hard
to traipse the line without falling into the grotesque (human flesh) or the comedic
(lemon) or the expected (spilling the wine glass). i want melancholy, simplified.
something mundane and rhythmic, rarely observed, like the imprints on skin
as you take off your knit sweater, pink, worn in, not very young.
close-up on you, your skin. slow-motion the way you feel.
the end, the middle, the brick wall--these will be
filled with the shots of you in bed--and the injustice
is the birthmark on your body, which you've always talked about
but haven't yet shown to me. this, you'll show me.
and everything will be backwards, i've decided, from this point on.
everything will be in reverse, and as the dogwood is losing
your sweater will return to you and your skin, your hair
falls down from your pony, your sheets will have recovered their monotony
as you leave them. the flowers you had torn will be restored to their sky,
and after we leave with our cameras, they will fall
naturally, a peaceful, unobserved death.
we go in the tunnel, and it is black, right, and literal, straight.
the viewer might not know there is an image, but there is,
and it is moving:
and from the radio we come back, out of the noise,
with last summer's song.
[http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171303]
and the background blurred with speed, comes his voice
narrating the hills over which his fingers are gliding, hovering
on her skin, small moles that make for the clumps of wood,
her eyes glinting blue and wet from the morning or something happier:
the bright spots of oceans being seen. and with the crush of an allegory
a blackout of the screen.
we begin again with the telephone and its receiver's coils,
tracing the source, this time unseen, and the message, unheard,
we jump-cut it, two times, or three, never a body, always the line
being moved. we'll set up the camera in front of the porch and point it
out across the field, and while he talks about sexual trees, we'll have nothing.
on spring and frailty and skies and baby leaves we place a human,
a small one, but a menacing giant to the blossoms she is tearing up
in the grip of her tiny, chubby hands. track the shot to the raw petal fragments
falling, and remain stationary, watching inexperienced destruction.
i do not know what to do with MEMORY LOVES TIME and vandalism,
the metaphysical highway graffiti. bold and black on white? or ignore it altogether?
there is not enough music in our narrator's voice, so let's not try to revive him and fail, let's drown him,
stream radio noise in the back until he asks us if Time loves Memory back.
to which we white-out, and maybe the residue of the contrast will stay,
let the viewer see what we mean if we mean anything at all.
for the dream and stained sheets i see slow-motioned puncturing, but it's hard
to traipse the line without falling into the grotesque (human flesh) or the comedic
(lemon) or the expected (spilling the wine glass). i want melancholy, simplified.
something mundane and rhythmic, rarely observed, like the imprints on skin
as you take off your knit sweater, pink, worn in, not very young.
close-up on you, your skin. slow-motion the way you feel.
the end, the middle, the brick wall--these will be
filled with the shots of you in bed--and the injustice
is the birthmark on your body, which you've always talked about
but haven't yet shown to me. this, you'll show me.
and everything will be backwards, i've decided, from this point on.
everything will be in reverse, and as the dogwood is losing
your sweater will return to you and your skin, your hair
falls down from your pony, your sheets will have recovered their monotony
as you leave them. the flowers you had torn will be restored to their sky,
and after we leave with our cameras, they will fall
naturally, a peaceful, unobserved death.
we go in the tunnel, and it is black, right, and literal, straight.
the viewer might not know there is an image, but there is,
and it is moving:
and from the radio we come back, out of the noise,
with last summer's song.
[http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171303]
superimposed
last year this time you were
taking pictures of it
hopping across,
a pavement bounce
i'm looking at your history
when you told the others that night,
swimming in the remains of a bad day,
how the stars had been hung, still kicking
and they went to watch it,
the execution as relaxation
you were sick then
and sank into your lungs,
expelled, and drugged
heavily in sugar,
red and liquid
left the house
but didn't bring yourself
you had not prepared for it:
even as he left first it was
the way the leaf fell
and you were the tree
how in the periphery you had managed
to ease yourself out of the looming over, that deadly weight
this time you sense the boot above your head
and what they say will be will be
a crush, a crunch
a certain implosion
and how you will smell
when you are destroyed
to all the kisses you'd imagined
add
broken wings
some nasty blood
your ugly body
and your ugly face
and that entire jar of honey
to preserve you
what have you forgotten
that is so important?
the stars are still hanging alive,
let's go see them tonight.
taking pictures of it
hopping across,
a pavement bounce
i'm looking at your history
when you told the others that night,
swimming in the remains of a bad day,
how the stars had been hung, still kicking
and they went to watch it,
the execution as relaxation
you were sick then
and sank into your lungs,
expelled, and drugged
heavily in sugar,
red and liquid
left the house
but didn't bring yourself
you had not prepared for it:
even as he left first it was
the way the leaf fell
and you were the tree
how in the periphery you had managed
to ease yourself out of the looming over, that deadly weight
this time you sense the boot above your head
and what they say will be will be
a crush, a crunch
a certain implosion
and how you will smell
when you are destroyed
to all the kisses you'd imagined
add
broken wings
some nasty blood
your ugly body
and your ugly face
and that entire jar of honey
to preserve you
what have you forgotten
that is so important?
the stars are still hanging alive,
let's go see them tonight.
we're happy
she tells you all these things to make you happy because it makes you happy.
and when you are happy, you will do things that happy people do.
the things that happy people do, she likes them.
so she says all these things, and you're happy,
and you're doing all these things, and she's happy,
and at the end of the day, it's a little marketplace,
working from sundown to sundown,
even when the rest of them desert you.
even better.
and when you are happy, you will do things that happy people do.
the things that happy people do, she likes them.
so she says all these things, and you're happy,
and you're doing all these things, and she's happy,
and at the end of the day, it's a little marketplace,
working from sundown to sundown,
even when the rest of them desert you.
even better.
the saint overlooks
when you've had a few drinks you'll go over
the halfway point on the couch crossing her legs
touch her arm
make her scream
the halfway point on the couch crossing her legs
touch her arm
make her scream
When you tend to yours and I to mine the tea grows cold and the next door slams
We are wary when you say you are lonely and I'm fine to the friend you'd almost forgotten
until She called you by your name and you were forced to recall hers We are so forgetful
on these walks At night the cars go by you when you cross on red As if you didn't care but
really You just forgot to look or maybe it's become an expectation that the world will Remember you for you
even as you forget yourself in the extra days of the calendar you will always obey Have obeyed since
That afternoon
you cried for the first time choking while the others waited for you to stop and
When you'd finally found your quiet they tucked you away
in a bed Like any other you knew
under all the warm blankets
what it felt like to be dead alive.
We are wary when you say you are lonely and I'm fine to the friend you'd almost forgotten
until She called you by your name and you were forced to recall hers We are so forgetful
on these walks At night the cars go by you when you cross on red As if you didn't care but
really You just forgot to look or maybe it's become an expectation that the world will Remember you for you
even as you forget yourself in the extra days of the calendar you will always obey Have obeyed since
That afternoon
you cried for the first time choking while the others waited for you to stop and
When you'd finally found your quiet they tucked you away
in a bed Like any other you knew
under all the warm blankets
what it felt like to be dead alive.
blasting apart the fireplace
fingers on love
we had
Pinned his location
IF we had fireplace or
chimney it would be
Our House of love misspelled
we'd want to tickle
the body knocking the Door
then one day of earthquake
and we'll watch it blow
if this were The place
we'd have been home today
but when? the earthquake came
we had
Pinned his location
IF we had fireplace or
chimney it would be
Our House of love misspelled
we'd want to tickle
the body knocking the Door
then one day of earthquake
and we'll watch it blow
if this were The place
we'd have been home today
but when? the earthquake came
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