art-time-collective

this love of ours growing like cancer, taking over
things which do not belong to it
corrupting cells
feels that way in my chest
rushing swell and i’m praying not malignant
or would be praying if i did
instead watching cigarette glow
latticed with outer dead layer of ash
which scatters into wind whipped world of Ottawa
our valley home of shifting pressures
of gusts and lulls
and you laugh and kind of clear your throat
with a joke on your mind you can’t quite work out
something something
of lusts and gulls
i flash a grin at you that i envision dashing
charming, et cetera; now shifting weight nervously
as if ready to run or dive right
making stunning save
but instead taking your small hand
burying it under mine
feeling warmth and life and all your material parts
everything moving lubricated under skin
i think of how i’ll write about this later
or if i don’t i’ll invent it
manufacture from scrapyard memories
some years down the road
and when it’s done i won’t remember still
but will feel bone and tendon moving under soft skin
odd echo in lonely fingers
and will somehow know every pain and angst
of the early days of our pagan love
that has always asked for sacrifice
that has cut out my still-beating heart
only to return it gently
and will somehow feel again that tumor
expanding in my chest somewhere behind lungs
beautiful sickness, fever like warming by the fire
worried house might catch
still piling on wood
building pyre for something dead and gone but not us
whose hearts still beat, still pound

An obscure beauty.
(Taken on an adventure in Thailand)



click for hi-res.

Tomorrow Forever.

TICK

      The clock pounds a rhythm,

      pulsating your eardrums,

      penetrating your senses

      piercing you awake.

TOCK

      A constant humming,

      the thrash of a drum

      rocking you deeper

      into consciousness

Up

      the volume swells.

      Crescendo, decrescendo,

      rapid jazzy fingers

      on a swinging chime.

Down

      the pitch plummets, the bass trembles;

      quivering and lashing,

      the gush and droning

      suffocates your mentality.

Inhale

      the perfume of shadows

      as the chasm creeps

      through a split in your curtains.

      You fasten them shut.

Exhale

       a slur of breaths,

       thrusting air over your tongue

      with an exasperated

      sigh.

Finally, the quiet drive of Tavistock gets some real snow.