(no subject)
I’m with you in Durham
Where you have heard this never and a hundred thousand million times in your
waking dreams and you understand and will and don’t.
I’m with you in Durham
Where you are brighter than I am and your sketches are brush strokes on Monet’s
canvass and my words seem like nursery rhymes.
I’m with you in Durham
Where every conversation is a hydra with more mouths flaming passion than people
without scripts are ever supposed to speak.
I’m with you in Durham
Where your sunken steps are tildes that separate the narration from the character’s
standard textbook insanity.
I’m with you in Durham
Where you are a black diamond statuette that blurs in and out of focus with my
winded teary eyes.
I’m with you in Durham
Where our words are the only things that keep us from gasping at every corner like
children in the theaters of late night horror picture show double features.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the only thing keeping the ice in check is the warmth of my notes in a little
red book.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the birds wear tuxedos in their flittering brain and conduct chirping
concertos to a sunrise that dances like epiphanies in a public hot tub.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the man I hope I can become goes running by in bicycle shorts and tells me
good morning through snow encrusted lips.
I’m with you in Durham
Where I wonder who’s recollection of this day will be paler and more perfect
because we are the least and most perfect.
I’m with you in Durham
Where a sundial is shining in the snow and longs for a snow dial blanketed in sun.
I’m with you in Durham
Where your eyes are acid and the sky is an orange purple gold gradient lid that
closes sloooooooowly.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the arcs are supernatural stories told about 6’ tall giants armed with
schematics and zeal and grins.
I’m with you in Durham
Where I want to write novels on the virgin snow of every word I do and don’t know.
I’m with you in Durham
Where you sit reading a book hailing a cab on a street corner with invisible train
tracks and there is something sounding around the bend.
I’m with you in Durham
Where my ears sunburn with new incongruences that have only graced those still
spinning and weaving in their sleep.
I’m with you in Durham
Where Alzheimer asks questions to known answers as loudly as Alzheimer asks
questions to known answers you are gone and back now and somewhere till the end
of my thoughts and even still past that.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the last page is a street in Paris and the Eiffel Tower is just beyond the
horizon always.
Where you have heard this never and a hundred thousand million times in your
waking dreams and you understand and will and don’t.
I’m with you in Durham
Where you are brighter than I am and your sketches are brush strokes on Monet’s
canvass and my words seem like nursery rhymes.
I’m with you in Durham
Where every conversation is a hydra with more mouths flaming passion than people
without scripts are ever supposed to speak.
I’m with you in Durham
Where your sunken steps are tildes that separate the narration from the character’s
standard textbook insanity.
I’m with you in Durham
Where you are a black diamond statuette that blurs in and out of focus with my
winded teary eyes.
I’m with you in Durham
Where our words are the only things that keep us from gasping at every corner like
children in the theaters of late night horror picture show double features.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the only thing keeping the ice in check is the warmth of my notes in a little
red book.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the birds wear tuxedos in their flittering brain and conduct chirping
concertos to a sunrise that dances like epiphanies in a public hot tub.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the man I hope I can become goes running by in bicycle shorts and tells me
good morning through snow encrusted lips.
I’m with you in Durham
Where I wonder who’s recollection of this day will be paler and more perfect
because we are the least and most perfect.
I’m with you in Durham
Where a sundial is shining in the snow and longs for a snow dial blanketed in sun.
I’m with you in Durham
Where your eyes are acid and the sky is an orange purple gold gradient lid that
closes sloooooooowly.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the arcs are supernatural stories told about 6’ tall giants armed with
schematics and zeal and grins.
I’m with you in Durham
Where I want to write novels on the virgin snow of every word I do and don’t know.
I’m with you in Durham
Where you sit reading a book hailing a cab on a street corner with invisible train
tracks and there is something sounding around the bend.
I’m with you in Durham
Where my ears sunburn with new incongruences that have only graced those still
spinning and weaving in their sleep.
I’m with you in Durham
Where Alzheimer asks questions to known answers as loudly as Alzheimer asks
questions to known answers you are gone and back now and somewhere till the end
of my thoughts and even still past that.
I’m with you in Durham
Where the last page is a street in Paris and the Eiffel Tower is just beyond the
horizon always.