Fresh Air From The Age
“I see a harbor filled with masts and sails, wearied by the sea wind that wearies me.”Archive for October, 2007
Exotic Perfume
When, on an autumn evening, with closed eyes,
I breathe the warm dark fragrance of your breast,
Before me blissful shores unfold, caressed
By dazzling fires from blue Unchanging skies.
And there, upon the calm and drowsing isle,
Grow luscious fruits amid fantastic trees :
There, men are light : the women of those seas
Amaze one with their gaze that knows no guile.
Your perfume wafts me thither like a wind :
I see a harbour thronged with masts and sails
Soil weary from the tumult of the gales;
And with the sailors’ song that drifts to me
Are mingled odours of the tamarind,
–And all my soul is scent and melody.
So, who’s to say what lost is.
Surely not me. Lost in the nights, lost in the days. When am I not? Am I? Fuck knows. I ran into some old music and its got me nostalgic. For what I dunno. Fuck it. Birthdays all around. 18– Nov, 29.
Im enjoying the moments anyway. The lost time seems irreplaceable– ill make it up. Unknown places and faces dont necessarily mean lost. It means new. Today was a morning just like any other. How beautiful is that? The day will come when Ill realize my morning have changed– afternoons, nights. Cant do much now cept enjoy it.
And Now–
I said never before and thought never again,
that the sweet ain’t as sweet without the sour.
The night lay bare before me–
no secrets withheld,
no promises made,
no consolations.
I just saw its frazzled nerves,
its lack of sound or sense,
its disappointment.
I saw in that night my own predilections,
plentiful and varied,
saying only,
“A night like tonight will not be incidents isolated–
at this rate, nights like tonight will echo for some time.”
And now–
I find the island dreams alive within a few days time,
I lack the constant perspective of that night and various other before it.
No longer lacking sound and sense, id like to think,
I find myself someplace new,
someplace I can see the things many wonder about.
Itll be a most special day when I can give these things a name like so many others before me have.
Before Or Since
“The sweet aint as sweet without the sour,” said a voice. I looked around, then down, and saw its owner. An old black man, about 65, skin dry and cracked, lips burnt and worn, looked up at me through hollow, bloodshot eyes. What a blank stare he had. It had been such a long, long day.
Beauty
Conceive me as a dream of stone:
my breast, where mortals come to grief,
is made to prompt all poets’ love,
mute and noble as matter itself.
With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
begrudging acts that alter forms;
I never laugh, I never weep.
In studious awe the poets brood
before my monumental pose
aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:
The timeless light of my wide eyes.
-Baudelaire
The Right Sound
I cant say i know where im going,
and it can all be so confusing,
so terribly humbling.
But every now and then a great song comes on.
Its a song youve heard before,
maybe many years ago.
but its like youre hearing it the first time ’round,
and its never sounded so crisp.
Its like cool morning air in your lungs,
or your eyes adapted to the light of the night.
And behind the notes youve heard before,
reverberating along with those ghostly vocals,
there comes a warm, knowing-kinda feeling.
A familiarity,
like riding with an afable taxi driver in a strange city.
The hotels and restaurants are alien,
youd be lost on any street corner.
But this seasoned old man,
an expert with his wheel and his tongue,
might remind you of your grandfather,
or the old men that smell of whiskey,
roaming the streets of key west.
How inspirational the right sound can be,
the right note,
or a haunting echo can be.
What sweet release it can be.
The Obligation
I remember looking for lost cell phones on dark, sandy beaches. Or waking up to the sound of someone throwing up. I remember some nights blurring into a very unique experience– just complete ecstacy, really. Most revelations, realizations, and ideas came on these nights. I feel i have an obligation to a universal, very dynamic human spirit to keep these nights going.
Tomorrow’s Hollow
theres lapses of time,
i find myself on a wednesday,
then a saturday.
no transitions between the days.
but every now and then a day comes,
a night more importantly,
where familiar faces come out of nowhere,
and im taken back.
and it feels like the first time,
out past curfew,
or in a strange girls bedroom–
drunk at the beach.
its so important to stay with these people,
otherwise we’d lose time.
we’d become undead,
staggering through days and nights,
waiting for empty tomorrows.
What Of These Blackbirds?
These fingers on these keys,
what of these fingers?
What of these words?
If anything– meditative.
In that case,
fuck the audience,
there aint no critic from the paper hiding away in there anymore.
that critic aint in you no more either.
anyway,
something worrisome,
and terribly so,
is on my mind.
its scattered thoughts for months,
havent written in months.
you know,
i think its that bukowski world.
that bukowski world where we drive down streets and into potholes and look up to see blackbirds on the phone lines,
what of these blackbirds?
I cant say i know.
lack of voice,
lack of structure.
The North Country
I once knew a girl in massachusetts. I met her in a hotel lobby and bought her coffee. shortly thereafter, i was in love. I spent the rest of that week with her in chilly boston. She showed me her city and her soul, and by that end of the week, i could hardly notice the first of the season’s snow. We sat on a snow covered park bench and watched a lake freeze. my time was up and warm, wet florida whispered in my ear. not quite knowing what to make of our time together, the goodbye was awkward and detached. I finally felt the cold air flow through my chest. I looked down and saw my wet, frozen shoes– but i couldnt look back. I wanted to.
time passed, as it always tends to do.
and i found myself a dead and hollowed oak tree,
washed ashore a polluted, ransacked beach.
two months after that awkward goodbye i met her in that same hotel lobby and we took our coffee to go. we drank it on the lake we’d seen freeze, almost at the center of it. The winter sky was clear and crisp, and in the distance i could see the red and white blurs of speeding traffic. I looked at this person next to me and saw more than a pair of eyes that could say anything; but a city, a coffeeshop, an unforgettable tryst and promise of something beautiful. The north country seemed to hold more than chilly weather and chilly people.
Fresh Air From The Age 