Chess Pieces
(1st movement: archways)

and now- the short twilight opens
and with your clarity arms
comes recollections of long-eyed
lifetime movies re-run
in city dreamscape
(watches, i, with mind's eye)
remembers always one step ahead
the scattered tale of coming
mush-brained meth-heads
unrattled by the tall swatch beasts
a decade of depravity ahead of them
the closing of doors in the soul
that follows after:
the secrets of nimh unwind and
begins in early day
the stalking up stairs of madmen
the war waged only in private homes
and inside, invisible is me
knowing already how the first man
crouches between the mattresses
and ends up in oakwood court
telling stories...

but this end is rewritten
like the muddled crusts of wonderland
and waking comes only when it's clear
how easily all of life
can be rewritten, reexplored
and for a moment: there's hope
that some mistakes can be undone
that certain words can be taken back

but back to sunsets and sunrises
in certain order, unchanging,
where the strange bearded czech
chooses e4 e5 which i chase
with a resounding Nf3
and so comes the real exchanges
where every word said matters
and every move made is either
action towards inaction or
inaction towards annihilation
the restlessness of greenwich
mean time and all of the
tied-down scenarios that ride
with it wherever it goes
like us- these odd monsters
only half formed and fuzzy-eyed
ending wars with hitler's skies

it's hard to chase days down

so certainly dreams which often fade
come close only in whispers, but this
the early life wages on
with the help of your clarity arms
and see-through stares

"we are only beggining," you say
but beggining what? and with whom:
what kind of harsh dark model
are you building?
where are the airy angels of youth
in your terrible visions?
where are your casted light saints
carved into the wall with the long
knife of your sight?

i am coming closer to explaining you.

i am coming closer to understanding you.

with all your wily ways and wired
forecasts melted into melodies
and harvested in the morning
by the aftermath of brian wilson
and left on the shore for all of us
to fall in love with...

you are coming clear.

and so, with trembling fingers
i punch out a few lines trying
to track down the origin of the soul
the origin of your soul

where do begginings start?

and so, with eager eyes
i slide across a few stanzas
trying to march out the answers
and maybe we'll all see

where does seeing reach the sightline?

and so, with arched brow
i pin down a few memories
and dreams, etching away at the day

how much of the day belongs to any of us?

but birth changes everything:
your early archway stares
and glory rides through
sand storms of the mind

what memories have i left out to rot?

where begins your first movement
into archways anchored by the past-
suicide histories and kinsey reports
matches made in heaven and magic wands
one two much snorted sometimes
surely too much smoked and
oversavored sensations...
this is the coming of earths into view
as seen by the light of candles
you lit first, with glasses you
first fogged up and wiped free
with your shirt-tip:
the stories you told me.

cars hissing by in the morning rain
slipping in the mud by the express ramp
dancing naked on soundstages
with flittery new girls and boys
chasing dragons you designed
through tech-worlds and mech-worlds
made of sunlight and ash
silicon cities (you made them shine)
your glances gave meaning to guns.

but the entire inside unfolds:
your coming in six movements and
certainly able-bodied to make
a victim of yourself

these dreams i have so much resemble you
so often so certainly so suddenly
that these pages follow you now
a shroud prayer, a benediction, a eulogy.

2006-08-16 | 2:26 p.m.
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