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Every Day and Now: The Salt of My Earth

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Every Day and Now. Thursday, July 24, 2014. The Salt of My Earth. You were the salt of my earth for a time, an earth breathing,. Wrinkled and ancient, in the black bed of the stars. You were the yawning echo moving over my tired skin,. An echo of swamp trees ruckusing late in the morning. You were the half-drunk word I wanted to say when the dusk-fed. Drawing room swelled with conversation and sadness. You were the weight of after-midnight on my eyelids. Onto my gravel-torn black boots on Sunday afternoon.

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Every Day and Now: Mere Being

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Every Day and Now. Friday, July 3, 2015. The gaze of another,. Like July-rinsed sheets,. Scented with warm dusk. And Julep soap, pulling. You down into a quivering. Like the satin tumid with fine. Sadness within a rough-pine. Coffin, a last gesture of hospitality,. Soft as December, bold. As a shameless white night. When trying to fall asleep,. Like the aged unfurled meadows. In the tanned hill countries, tall. Summer grass disguising your being,. Its wavering reeds loitering. In your revering eyes under.

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Every Day and Now: Midnight is Fine

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Every Day and Now. Saturday, September 6, 2014. Labels: Summer House Improvisations. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). It's a strange thing to have the mind of a summer house. Daydreaming in the Night. Society of the Spectacle. Ideal Sounds (in progress). Travel template. Powered by Blogger.

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Every Day and Now: The Evening of Little Faith

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Every Day and Now. Monday, August 25, 2014. The Evening of Little Faith. The lashes of her eyes cower like a mountain range,. If it were of dark silk, nuzzling the hot evening,. An earnest Hades cold, blue stars and all,. And if such a mountain range could sink over. The meager earth of your skin, stretched hot,. Lost in the thin, syringing clouds of her eyes. The evening God made for words muttered. When high before a microphone of blistered-lips,. Since you see the torn moon applauds. To cast to the sea.

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Every Day and Now: Rosewood Melody

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Every Day and Now. Wednesday, February 25, 2015. Your breath would have sounded cold, or bruised,. As it writes me in a bass-scribble to deep bedridden evening,. But, as usual, you stopped the thought to tell me why. The night reminded you of rosewood tea, and why. Its dried-stem scent was how your eyes taste to mine,. And how you wish to might have buried your absinthe warm palms. In the dry night-soil of the stratosphere above every other Lent,. Would never breathe through you, since what would.

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Every Day and Now: The Misery of the Night

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Every Day and Now. Sunday, June 28, 2015. The Misery of the Night. Could you pass the wrinkled cards of hours and remember,. Could say, I might- I might- but not tonight,. The stars go on scribbling pictures of old rams and crabs. On the frail, peeling midnight,. A frayed tawny cloth on a seer's table,. Rather one of us will speak up and say,. We missed all the misery tonight";. When did my body become a cigarette to you-. My heart is beating around the bush,. And my heart is a stranger, a Jew razed in.