The heart just hangs there
like a pause, I inhale its smolder
until I am a cloud. We arrive
home priceless, laughing at the thought
of ever losing someone or getting lost.
We lazily toed the Pacific, speaking
in whispers of golden orange, knowing
the history that hadn’t happened yet,
the black ocean sounded like a desert from
where we stood at a distance from the stars
and waved, their medieval bulk shooting
light in dynamite specks, to their casual,
meaningless preciousness, feeling like we’re
rushing toward them backwards, close enough
to smell their bright peaceful sleep.
Dirty up the pretty dream,
when it’s available for everyone it’s taken
for granted and innovative workarounds
root themselves in the endless
grids of indistinguishable spirits.
I assumed the sun was a vehicle
for mapping change so I stole it
from the lot and drove it to the part
of town slashed by endless freeway
underpasses and left it on blocks —
until I started smashing states
of wanton transformations
and dreams of modern architecture
I was just trying to subdivided now and
tomorrow until it could stay constant.
*Field Notes* <https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/86756416/INDUSTRIAL%20LUNCH%20No.%201.pdf>* by *KEVIN GRIJALVA* <http://thetargetbird.com/>So apparently a few weeks back Picture.Poem.Song. featured some of my work and said some nice things about it. Had no idea, but thanks! It’s very flattering!
I assumed clean
was a matter of aesthetic,
as in: what’s the difference
between the appearance
and the preservation,
where in that
discombobulation do we
find space to adjust,
how do we maintain it
when there’s constant
even slight winds?
The sun was visiting
splendor, telling tall tales
about the beauty
of living out-of-doors.
The days spoke in trees.
Gigantic dream sands
had been shifted
to make a plain
where we could grow
until our bodies
and their symbols
were one and the same thing.
But sands may decide
to shift for themselves
at any time.
Sands might dream, too,
of igniting the benign
symbology of a dune
that renews itself
as a matter of fact —
maybe what’s more
pristine is deliberately
throwing our white shirts
onto the beach and
carrying dirt home
to marvel at what could
appear in the etchings
of a stain.
I was talking to David,
and if love revealed itself
while we were building
a scaffold around
I don’t think the sun
would be as wrenching
when it went down.
1. Why write?
Because it’s a privilege to be able to
Multi-gradient, familiar strangeness, clean but not sterile
Read three books (fiction, nonfiction, poetry), collect quotes and ideas; bucket things in larger topics; write a ton and whittle down.
4. At the moment
Struggling to find time to write
Prone to procrastination, nail-biting, and being indecisive about minor things like what to eat for dinner
6. A writer is
Anyone empowered with the ability to make their words live past the moment they’re spoken