I found the old films
from that time when
a camera affixed itself
to my right eye.
I bore witness then
like a peephole
in the fleshy unedited
Wall of the World.
I found the old films
from that time when
a camera affixed itself
to my right eye.
I bore witness then
like a peephole
in the fleshy unedited
Wall of the World.
I heard your voice
familiar soft
lyrics just audible
through painted walls
were they yours
or mine
I only recall
harmony lines
Dear Tom Hanks,
i am here to tell you that i am so (imagine SO big gesture) happy with my new Hanx Writer.
how i have missed the feel, the soun—oh, my friend says “you’re kidding, right? sorta like me getting up in the morning and practising my fiddle.” So now I have located and donned my headphones. We’re in a hotel so, you know, every hum and bleep is heard.
Anyway, Tom Hanks, i will use this thing. A lot, probably.
Modernity with depth or something, but mostly i think it returns me to a time of power. Yes, those lazy and bold times when i, Procrastinator, stayed up all night long to write (type) term papers on my manual typewriter—and the miraculous eraseable paper—all wide-eyed and inspired and desperate and unwilling to admit failure, composing and formatting and typing typing typing until finally i found my way to clux it all up into a Conclusion and then…ah! The End. Stack staple submit.
You can see that those remain unforgettable moments. My still sound, albeit somewhat older heart awakens to pound more prominently right now as i briefly return to that place and harried time.
Be assured that it is not to return to the past that impels me to download and utilize your Hanx Writer. No, although i can walk backward as well as anyone, i see little value in living as such, wandering lost in the already explored behind. Nope, Hanx Writer is for the now, for the as yet unwritten future.
It’s for me. And you. It’s for Yes. For the type writer inside.
Sincerely, thank you.
An Unfinished Writer
Last night I watched that
movie about a desperate
poet
so sure of her brilliance
she stalked her hero
believing he could bestow some kind of “poetic serum”
from a vial kept wrapped
in his used napkin.
She screamed a lot
tacked a photo of Sylvia Plath upon her dead wall
and I remember
awakening between scenes thinking
of how badly she had to want it
to scream to rage to stalk
so loudly
to declare with absolute
unretractable intent
her purpose
while time slips beyond
vague edges of pregnant beginnings and surface grazing
I have never thought to
scream or rage
or charge anyone
at all.
Too far
proximity defines
possibility
inch
liar pretender coward
synchronicity
lust
clear eyes gazing
blindness
fantasy inhalants hallucinations
resistance
longing denial relenting
advance of dance
lyrics undressed
letters
push
wonder star dreams
stepping
sidewalk stomp lament
sorrow
sighing earth fire
repeat
sparring rest compete
answer
recall single lines
slingblade
strings with moonface
nonsense
hand jive juvenile
shielding hearts
competitive minds
madness
joy laughter spring water
fall
consensus ad idem
you there
taking my time.
Where are you?
I dreamed of another’s face
streamed silk white hair
someone else’s ancestor
in place of mine.
Where is your story?
I cannot locate you
in the rubble recordings
vanished or taken
by time and careless wind.
My face is singular here
an orphan among features
drawn by one hand.
While I long for a view
of the profile woven
between deep in gritty
stone silent walls.
Not an original
ideas become
inspirations spawned
from glimpses
magnetic hunger stealings
foraged kindling
yields way to flame.