between sleep and teatime

and the clouds will do whatever you want them to. as long as you give them enough time.

tempests have no paitence. they cannot stand still and bloated, tracing circles like cyclones meandering from coast to coast. terriers of meteorology, they are ferocity without weight.

nonetheless
this day brings bucketfuls of sunshine, splashed on trees and sweat lines. we weave through shadelines, sprawl on grass and perfection is so close it makes me shiver.

not yet there

the new day threatens downpours that never eventuate. i am procrastinating with the sky.

our divinations are mere consellations. a kaliedoscope of meanings transposed onto events. a way to move us from then to now. later remains elusive, flashing in corners like headlights on a winding road.

i am dousing my mind in every elixer i know to keep myself from falling asleep at the wheel. content to muddle through hours in silent company; i am pressed up against the notations of life as it is.

these lists beckon beyond my sanctuary
i am reaching
not yet there

displacement theory

thoughts are placed into body. Slipped into pockets between bone and skin. Affections catalouged in vertebrae. Longings swell from shoulder blade to clavical and skull. The femur is the site of old wounds, propelling us into the future as we tense in release. Small sockets and springs, moving in unison from what was to what will be

text book moment

there is a quiet place that finds you at the end of the night. Where all your habits cannot conceal the passage of time across your skin. Lines read like text books across palms. Some indentations never leave us. Some stain us, some embalm us, some conscript us into adventures in far distant lands.

to start with

the week starts with sinew stretching. bones clicked back into place.

skies drizzled with cream puffs and soft springtime breezes. small lists swarming in piles of paper. the low purr of the photocopier alluding to feline pursuits and tangled sheet dreaming.

navigating emptied offices. tripping on phone books and renovations. the sure settling of carpe diems into ce'st la vies.

what to wear when the sky is dressed in clouds

from where we stand the world stretches in so many directions that even the horizon seems dizzy.

on a day built for sleeping i am soft eyes and caffine. stringing sentances together with mismatched words. i await the descent into uncertaintity but by late afternoon it has failed to arrive.

i meditate on elasticity. on interventions that fall with such grace that they are almost divine. i study the stiches in the webs that we weave and am convinced that the whole universe must be made of time.

and on this skyline nothing fails to escape me. there are only expanses made up of physics and human desire. what we cannot see stretches our imagination. i am reaching beyond the reach of my hands.

till clouds sweep me off my feet onto higher planes.

the last drops of the day squeezed from the sky. I supine and languid, sprawled upon soft linen. Touching the clouds with my eyes. I wonder at the slow gesture of the heart and the dizzy heights of the mind. At the spaces between. The flux of beginnings and endings. The sudden revelation of buried desire. Seeking a pattern in chaos. Unopened doors in well windowed rooms. I find no resolution yet resolve to stay centered. Geographically. Metaphorically. Inside.