(no subject)
the Old Yarn
Only once a clear relief map of the green, fawn, hardly moving coast
Appears do they really wonder why they are leaving it;
Control falls away sharp, wings in funny metal movements
Salute roads and they fall away, and the murmurs illustrate a thought;
Having slipped from so many of those last parties, it should be easy,
But it’s not. Exhausted snow covered by the virgin storm ahead,
That stupefying sunup, to see things as an avian migration,
A need for a kind of food, instincts of when to depart the seasons.
There must be something left to find or else we wouldn’t keep searching for it.
I’ve counted all the swimming pools; nineteen. I’ve ordered a wine; white.
You remind me of myself.
I see how that sounds.
Same questions, same drought for novelty,
Always naming, thinking of time, running through ‘dead’ corn fields
Only looking good and hard at them later in the presence of luggage and
A hesitance the size of a huge, dying blue whale.
A bird leaves the nest knowing?
Ancestral passage, songs of the genus, and
Poisonous berries;
How long have you mimicked airplanes, kid?
(Long as you’ve
Used birds
As allegory)
Appropriately,
He might spend years trying to remember
A yellow in the sky, which meant something
He’d only know if he saw it again.
An old friend’s voice gets hidden someplace,
Objects move from one state, one country,
To the next, as if we have carried them from a past life
And will carry them also to the next and so on.
Whatever home is, sure as hell is not a word, and what else it’s not
Is fresh loudnesses and silence,
Strangers saying "hello" at night,
The possibility of getting lost again,
Maybe that’s why we leave
(Keep on) With words like: chapters,
With normal hopes like: nocturnalism
The only safe thing to say is that there is very little we actually know.
Years go by and the stories remain bad-TV-snowy someplace.
Between long blinks and short sleeps.
The oldest memories, and the very oldest objects,
Those we actually left somewhere in a country we will return to
In order that they are not lost and only keep reminding us of ourselves.
I want you to know that for some reason, I will always remember
Your description of the scarab pencil case of your mothers.
So, I don’t know, what are we to keep; with so much
In the way of garbage and asceticist wisdom suggesting everything
Even people must sooner or later be deep sixed,
What do you keep?
Only once a clear relief map of the green, fawn, hardly moving coast
Appears do they really wonder why they are leaving it;
Control falls away sharp, wings in funny metal movements
Salute roads and they fall away, and the murmurs illustrate a thought;
Having slipped from so many of those last parties, it should be easy,
But it’s not. Exhausted snow covered by the virgin storm ahead,
That stupefying sunup, to see things as an avian migration,
A need for a kind of food, instincts of when to depart the seasons.
There must be something left to find or else we wouldn’t keep searching for it.
I’ve counted all the swimming pools; nineteen. I’ve ordered a wine; white.
You remind me of myself.
I see how that sounds.
Same questions, same drought for novelty,
Always naming, thinking of time, running through ‘dead’ corn fields
Only looking good and hard at them later in the presence of luggage and
A hesitance the size of a huge, dying blue whale.
A bird leaves the nest knowing?
Ancestral passage, songs of the genus, and
Poisonous berries;
How long have you mimicked airplanes, kid?
(Long as you’ve
Used birds
As allegory)
Appropriately,
He might spend years trying to remember
A yellow in the sky, which meant something
He’d only know if he saw it again.
An old friend’s voice gets hidden someplace,
Objects move from one state, one country,
To the next, as if we have carried them from a past life
And will carry them also to the next and so on.
Whatever home is, sure as hell is not a word, and what else it’s not
Is fresh loudnesses and silence,
Strangers saying "hello" at night,
The possibility of getting lost again,
Maybe that’s why we leave
(Keep on) With words like: chapters,
With normal hopes like: nocturnalism
The only safe thing to say is that there is very little we actually know.
Years go by and the stories remain bad-TV-snowy someplace.
Between long blinks and short sleeps.
The oldest memories, and the very oldest objects,
Those we actually left somewhere in a country we will return to
In order that they are not lost and only keep reminding us of ourselves.
I want you to know that for some reason, I will always remember
Your description of the scarab pencil case of your mothers.
So, I don’t know, what are we to keep; with so much
In the way of garbage and asceticist wisdom suggesting everything
Even people must sooner or later be deep sixed,
What do you keep?