Oct. 1st, 2010

raoin: (on the rail)
White Noise on the Wire

I am sitting on the far end of the couch from you.
i am not looking at you,
but i am paying full attention.
Silent; i am stripped down to myself.

you fiddle and fuss
with the gadgetry inherent to your existence
in this, the modern era, all your tech clamours for attention:
needy children
with nothing to say
and nothing to do but take.

you acuse and i have no response.
i am mute.
i am blind.
all my words and understanding are stoppered up.

Like a hose with a kink,
my emotions leak,
infecting our day to day.

and you snap back at my silence
this alien sensation, this space where substance should be,
like you could never have caused any of what i am feeling;
any of what you are feeling.
distracted you coset and jiggle the children:
remotes - they are.

are we?
i feel taken for granted.
i feel like i might be taking your for granted.

i assume that there must be something wrong with me
for you to react to me the way you do,
for you to live as you do.

hold me, see me.

be here, be real.

even if you dont like what you hear
and dont want to talk about it.
and a little voice,
from far back within me,
struggles to form the words
and failing, falls silent, ashamed.

so i am sitting, silent, at the other end of the couch
and i shrug at your accusations and try again.
you believe i have just ignored you
although i am paying attention, complete and full attention, to you
and you are still grappling with the digital menagerie of your life.
a snake handler, a lion tamer.
they will eat you, lover.

you begin to make up fantastical reasons
and i shake my head in silence with each one.

behind layers of passive observations
i scrape and burrow, lost;
looking for my words
and wonder if i imagined you feeling angry
a hot memory of your annoyance flashes
and as i push it back at you
you confirm that i imagined it all.



hey look, new poetry.
this, and all the ones for October that follow, are parts of pages i resurrected recently.
stuff i scribbled but found no use for.
i'm putting it up in the hopes of reigniting a spark.

Bone Digger

Oct. 1st, 2010 03:13 pm
raoin: (on the rail)
Bone Digger
deep down
beneath the leaves and soil
through clay and rock
a muted kaleidoscope made of browns and grays and blacks

deep down
you know
beyond the roots
beyond where up means air
all things are pressure and time

grind against me

bury these moments in layers
calcify

you, with your pick and shovel
i'll fight you tooth and nail



this, and all the ones for October that follow, are parts of pages i resurrected recently.
stuff i scribbled but found no use for.
i'm putting it up in the hopes of reigniting a spark.

Untitled 2

Oct. 1st, 2010 03:19 pm
raoin: (on the rail)
Untitled 2
At the ragged edged of this page

i think that's us

why would i want to go back

everything since those first months
has been a culmination of this
a culmination of wishing to stay, asking to go,
and taking without giving.
why then do i yearn for so short a period of time.

court me, damn it,
i just want to believe
that you still think i'm worth striving for.

no longer a lover
you offer me no petals, no grace
you do not seek to impress me

with smooth hard eyes, i am a closed column of granite.
i am a solid foundation
upon which all else is built;
all else seen and heard and used.

and i wonder why -
no i do not wonder.

act like you've only known me a week
and you're hoping against hope
that i'll let you kiss me.



this, and all the ones for October that follow, are parts of pages i resurrected recently.
stuff i scribbled but found no use for.
i'm putting it up in the hopes of reigniting a spark.

Fording

Oct. 1st, 2010 03:27 pm
raoin: (on the rail)
Fording
my toes part the grass
the dew and grit
and the cool slickness
the tickling of bending blades against my arches and ankels
the steady thrum of cicadas and crickets

pervasive

noise against my ear drums, drowning,
my ears ring with the rush of the blood in my veins,
the pounding rythm of my stride,
the overarching crash and rasp
of lung and heart.

i reach the stream.
i feel the pull and suck of mud,
thick and oozing between my toes,
and i step into the water and feel my feet go numb with cold
the water acting like a cool silver sock.

i wade in further, up to my knees
and splash through to the other side.
transgressing.

down by the river where its warm and green
down by the cool cool river
i would have been a pair of ragged claws;
i would have been slender legs slung deep in mud;
i would have been a slick and leathery pipe organ.

in the joy and noise and tumult of a summer night



this, and all the ones for October that follow, are parts of pages i resurrected recently.
stuff i scribbled but found no use for.
i'm putting it up in the hopes of reigniting a spark.
raoin: (on the rail)
Heavy in My Hands
torn between the dailiness of living
and the mantra which says life is adventure and action -
small reptitive actions.
are they really any action at all?
are they change, like magma creeping up through fissures?

i wanted to be and do so many things
but life was a stone in my hands:
a stone in my hands and i could not skip it across the lake.
one chance to see how far my stone would go
and i could not.



this, and all the ones for October that follow, are parts of pages i resurrected recently.
stuff i scribbled but found no use for.
i'm putting it up in the hopes of reigniting a spark.

Untitled 3

Oct. 1st, 2010 03:39 pm
raoin: (on the rail)
Untitled 3
If i had a gun,
with sixty silver wishes,
i would spend them all on this.
the certainty would deafen the world.

we would all know that secret.



this, and all the ones for October that follow, are parts of pages i resurrected recently.
stuff i scribbled but found no use for.
i'm putting it up in the hopes of reigniting a spark.

Diminish

Oct. 1st, 2010 03:46 pm
raoin: (on the rail)
Diminish
you are a dozen rich lines of ink on the page
and i think, half-heartedly, disparagingly,
that i will never finish.

in the thickness, the lines between such things,
i find myself reduced to a haiku
and none the richer for my condensation.

who wants to fold a saga of autumns
into the stark movements of the new Rome.

i seem to be of this aim.
two lines away and i find myself
with nothing to say.

my y's are right rich loopholes;
handholds of prophecy.

so seldom would you have to reach out;
bridge the drift between letters -
only one reason
among many.

smell this ink.
it is the product of this time:
disposable, disreputable; indispensable.
common and by its commonness
if not loved, or otherwise held in high regard,
famous.



this, and all the ones for October that follow, are parts of pages i resurrected recently.
stuff i scribbled but found no use for.
i'm putting it up in the hopes of reigniting a spark.

Idle

Oct. 1st, 2010 03:50 pm
raoin: (on the rail)
Idle
the distant but grinding crash of a wave on a beach

the skurl and scar of chisel against wood

beginnings are so easy:
you take the edge between both hands,
you hope that by the time you come to the end,
that you got your line straight.

examine these ragged ends,
these loose fibers and filaments:
they form an alien landscape
hills and valleys; a distant horizon.

consider:
is that not, more or less, half?
and gently, so gently, i pull again.

a second's sound bite of a rocket launching from canaveral

the deep churning of ancient engines through water

destruction and hope -
half, fourth, eighth, sixteenth.
sooner or later i'll have confetti.
what will i celebrate?
each moment, each action is shorter than the last.

a thirty-second and now the whole is smaller than the palm of my hand.
what once was larger than my own head,
at sixty-fourths is too thick to go all at once.

rending is not always such an exact business.
i guess that these are more or less rectangles -
along the line of best fit all things may be made more exact.

i have destroyed a page,
i may yet destroy the world.



hey look, new poetry.
this, and all the ones for October that follow, are parts of pages i resurrected recently.
stuff i scribbled but found no use for.
i'm putting it up in the hopes of reigniting a spark.

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