Wishing you well
From some enchanted island
That could be some kind of mecca
For doing good
But mostly feels
Devoid of inspiration
Which makes me wonder
How I even write at all
It is the lack of electricity
Similar to some Micronesian island
Or deep Andes village
That saturates me with the right mood
And allows me to purvey
A particular flavor
One could argue
That the flavor is my own
Some haunting odor
Trackable by hound
That can not be shaken
From my marinated bones
However
I prefer to think of myself as a conduit
Of the environment
Or at the very least a sponge
That keeps its stinky shape
Until it is foul enough to throw away
But always delivers
With certainty
A realistic representation
Of all that comes across it
Here, of course
Is a definite place
With a definite flavor
That can be shared on a myriad of levels
My spongy device is still selective
Dredging itself
In only as much
As it thinks it can handle
I have been places
Where the energy jumped off the sidewalk
And into my general juices
Inciting a flair for the improvisational
Or at the very least
The ability to forget:
That particular mechanism
Is a goldmine
I have never visited a goldmine
But can only imagine
It's a lot of hard work
I'm not a geologist
But have envisioned bedrock
As a fierce competitor
Slate and obsidian
Shale and shell
All friends of my foes
And friends of my friends
But bedrock
Doesn't care
For any of that
These are our triumphs
Narrowly averted
And barely achieved
But combined with our blood
It gives a pretty good idea
Of what we're made of
Other things
While beautiful
Fail to deliver
With any kind of certainty
A promise of remembrance
Even the chemicals
Will eventually show themselves to the door
Masonry and a general air of defiance
That is the song
That I will remember
And ask those around me
To talk of it fondly
Not the acts
But the general air
Places I left behind
Are mildew to me now
Sweet in the nostril and unmistakable
Stuck to me for so long
I have forgotten what I smell like
More of me
Than I care to admit
But just enough
To wonder what it smells like to be new
Somewhere there were sunsets
Pink and angry
Showing me a resolution
Somewhere wet
With little bugs
To remind me it was real
And wood that can never be petrified
Not where I'm standing
--
8.22.07
From some enchanted island
That could be some kind of mecca
For doing good
But mostly feels
Devoid of inspiration
Which makes me wonder
How I even write at all
It is the lack of electricity
Similar to some Micronesian island
Or deep Andes village
That saturates me with the right mood
And allows me to purvey
A particular flavor
One could argue
That the flavor is my own
Some haunting odor
Trackable by hound
That can not be shaken
From my marinated bones
However
I prefer to think of myself as a conduit
Of the environment
Or at the very least a sponge
That keeps its stinky shape
Until it is foul enough to throw away
But always delivers
With certainty
A realistic representation
Of all that comes across it
Here, of course
Is a definite place
With a definite flavor
That can be shared on a myriad of levels
My spongy device is still selective
Dredging itself
In only as much
As it thinks it can handle
I have been places
Where the energy jumped off the sidewalk
And into my general juices
Inciting a flair for the improvisational
Or at the very least
The ability to forget:
That particular mechanism
Is a goldmine
I have never visited a goldmine
But can only imagine
It's a lot of hard work
I'm not a geologist
But have envisioned bedrock
As a fierce competitor
Slate and obsidian
Shale and shell
All friends of my foes
And friends of my friends
But bedrock
Doesn't care
For any of that
These are our triumphs
Narrowly averted
And barely achieved
But combined with our blood
It gives a pretty good idea
Of what we're made of
Other things
While beautiful
Fail to deliver
With any kind of certainty
A promise of remembrance
Even the chemicals
Will eventually show themselves to the door
Masonry and a general air of defiance
That is the song
That I will remember
And ask those around me
To talk of it fondly
Not the acts
But the general air
Places I left behind
Are mildew to me now
Sweet in the nostril and unmistakable
Stuck to me for so long
I have forgotten what I smell like
More of me
Than I care to admit
But just enough
To wonder what it smells like to be new
Somewhere there were sunsets
Pink and angry
Showing me a resolution
Somewhere wet
With little bugs
To remind me it was real
And wood that can never be petrified
Not where I'm standing
--
8.22.07
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