sought is found

is what i thought

the time i braved the cold and

wind in the morning when

the dead trees were my only

company. body shook, struggling

to secrete bravery and

adrenaline resulted, i shook.

slight vibrato in my words,

do you.. do you want to?

met with your tentative

brevity. if every day i

thought of you (since then)

would it quicken your yes

or draw your mouth to a no?

i'd never tell you that, but my

trembling soul hasn't stopped

shaking, the vibrations of a

tuning fork or guitar string

purely struck. sought is found

and words are stuck where

they landed, notes sustained

where they were plucked.

beauty in intricacy is over

rated when you want one

simple thing, could you

concede? there's death in

silence. sought is unfound

and unkind to me, the

string once plucked

does not resound or

ornately garnish the beginning

movement of a song,

but gradients of fading

paint the walls of wordlessness

: is what i thought

undone?

trying living rhetoric

is short of marrow

and the heart,

the shoes without

the will to walk

the seed without

the dream of stalk

sharper corners

milled about

in dreams and abstracts

proofs of breath

puncture lungs

before they think

of speaking death,

reckless as a cataphract

under reason's banner

cavalier to kill a

flower

i

the hint

inherit in your voice

(although we speak

as silent ones)

allows the sight

of fear to sur

face, pressure

cracks form on

the tongue,

try to show

no weakness

says your inner

voice to you,

i saw it in

proverbial eyes

alas,

i heard it too.

ii

love songs

grow like weeds

are plucked like flowers

with no toils,

to give to hers

(a gift ignoring

the cubic virtue

of houses next to

which they grew)

love songs wilt

next to deeds,

the weight

which crushes soil.

iii.

guilty is

the landscape painter

the guitar-strummer

the missile silo

guilty as

guilty as me.

for pretending

no time is

'nt fixed, when a note

a word is

a weapon with

the potent

cy to kill

guilty as the

all.

stop

apologizing.

i killed you with

my words

then formaldehyde

was poured

on the trees

over where

we used to sit

in your car.

every time you

see those leaves

they freeze in your

un

wavering

remembrance

of the death

you suffered there.

then i painted

over film

the scenes that

i remembered,

romanticized

everything. damned

am i for lying.

my finger twitched

towards destruction

of worlds

as i became death

myself, then.

guilty is

guilty as i,

don't apologize

don't you (umbrella!)

simplify a storm(s)

[television specks

of fluorescence;

northwest! sputters out

five o'clock]

as if a name

could smooth, smooth

puffies and corners

into a pill

to take, to take you

into knowing

the fact (the fact!

as if all of

raindropssssss

showers

bursts/swells

anddrinkings

the tinklings

on roofs

CRACKS and

and clappings

rumbles, the drums

of pressureful booms

wafts of fore

during and after

dirt clods lept

in the air, all

were under your

the same) a roof

to keep you dry

from it (all)

or you'll

insult the sky;

so did i

(thirst)

the desire to return

is not foreign

to one who has

never been,

for one who tastes

but doesn't swallow

for one who sees

but doesn't enter

that to be grasped

is inhabited and consumed

by thought

by imaginations

the desire to return

is not back, ahead

the substance

is no foreign land.

to wish a season

to be "here"

(the vanity of

unanswered prayer)

to will a way

where will will go

that eats the fruit

that didn't sow

to conquer clocks,

stones, and orbits

that sit in

unanswered silence

infinitive echoes

the places that did not know

and where will will not go

to die alive

and live for death

breath in, too

and exhale breath

that will become

everywhere

and will is where

to go.