31 01 2010

its night time now and my eyes are getting heavy. light hurts oh  it does. light, but this blanket is warm, and this song is good, and this house is empty and these streets are quiet. saint augustine is cold tonight, the town of people and air and time and sky and walls and doorways. the ground is warm, though: warm, inviting, the waves striking the shore, the clouds hiding the stars, the trees keeping time with the air rushing through their branches to somewhere away from here.


.  ..  ..   .  .  …    . … ..  when does an ellipse become a line of periods, ?

and when does that line turn into a [[path]], and when does the path lead to somewhere away from here

what if i let the wind lead me, ?

some wind-led boy ,     running      from  his town, running  from this place of trees and streets, warm ground

cold people, so cold so cold so cold

the sleep sounds nice, the thought of it and the dream of it

but dreaming of sleep, is not sleep, is it

— is not, and is not warm,

and is not here, and,

, is not

which begs the question, why so cold, ? why so cold when the ground is so warm, ? we walk on the  ground and we stare at the ground and we end up in the  ground so why not learn from the ground why not learn to speak from the speechless and see from the seeless and fly from the wingless and sleep from the restless and

can i learn from the ground how to walk, as i

learn from the dead how to live, ?




One response

1 02 2010

Dublin has it’s Joyce and St Augustine will have it’s Skyler.

Looking forward to your coming of age novel. A moody introspection on your catholic education, metaphor laden sexual discovery and pursuit of philosophy (you can use that Alan Watts book I lent as a baseline if you ever get around to reading it). I think you should call it Portrait of a Horse as a Young Foal.

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