Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Fought so hard against the pavement, tar bubbles pressed beneath my toes
the air escaping with instruction, with relief
"vowels come from breath" they are emotive things, orgasm, suprise, murder

warred against the aged road signs and their sharpened ends, swords sleeping on
crutches with script to show how far, how close, how relative my position

I wish i could rock a sundial on my collar bone instead of these silver roped chains, this leash "heel motherfucker, heel"
and my shadow would constantly walk before me instead of consonants pausing to form names, claim ownership, no longer stewards but thieves, hoarders
unearned diplomas tell me to put trust in the digits there, logic can be calculated

lone numbers change from rebels to leaders to sentence to paragraph to speech and make stories and daytime soap dramas make it true and factual even though i haven't decided anything
weighing my options with porcelain plates
Delft Blue heirlooms of my grandmother
the dirt that became her roof cold more than a year now

I don't want to turn around, have the road turn for me and i can settle with that
With the inevitability of a circle in this life, in my own life, and for that circle to one day be filled with tears of joy i hope to mirror this soundtrack i've been listening to, put a face to all these songs, a name to the hinted subject matter

A circle that will one day fill and i will wait beside it on my sweat stained mat of straw for the angels to come stir the water so we can wade and be healed, and my friends will stand and kneel and bleed, my family
my sister with the small blonde hairs of her children wove between her fingers, she pulls so tight that they equally pull away; it's for their safety honey
my mother with trachea scars, demylenated nerves pinched and her body favoring angles of comfort, oxygen tanks empty, clear hoses and straws coiled and stowed away

my brother on his stomach hungry and belly open, the bars removed from his 9X12 but the world didn't adhere to its promise of growing at all, it never did
we wait beside the pool for large foamed fingers to come and move over the water, to disturb the peace, to ripple the reflection, to make shape from void and curves from the plateau, so that we may be changed into the likeness
into his likeness

Great piece on a series of dreams...Keep those pieces coming to the net.
Sometimes the darkest dreams are just before the silver fingers of dawn...

^Thanks Steve. I rarely remember dreams, but the feeling is left behind. At least today it was, then you paint images to match the emotion. paint by number ect. connect all the dotted lines to make the road smoother

Smashingly good!!!! Better than that even!!!!
All except for the last three words.

H

Nick... I love this! This is how I remembered your writing... so vivid with imagery... the writing is captivating.... the dream so beautifully relayed...

Years ago, when I first met you when you were so much younger, I saw your talent... I recognized it. And I was right!

Please keep writing. One day I'll buy your book.

Thanks Doreen, Hester.

A member of this board actually prompted me to write this, i was sent a vague pm, and out of that confusion i was forced to write something that morning-which is what the above- is.

I'm not confused today, have yet to find a mystery beyond my rebound headache's, but i keep thinking of a small pond with no fish in it, and our lines dragging across it's bottom, plastic worms with hinged hooks to prevent grabbing weeds, you always grab them, always have to take up the lure and undress it, primp it, just to throw it back in the water and come up with nothing, a cycle where nothing is cleaned, nothing it gained, but it forms a habit, a habit that in and of itself satisfies the situation, whether fish are caught or not, the same mechanisms are at play, the same care and preparations must be attended to

You must be in the right position to be blessed, you must be at the correct height or bottom, well wishers never think of the person down there in the water, listening, awakened by the sparkle of their currency grabbing the light and reflecting their figure, such a small portion, the bigger the gift the more they can see, a few thousand more coins and they will be shown their own face, few thousand more they will be able to see expressions, a few thousand more they can see the age in their eyes, the age you gave them by providing mirrors. . .

Speaking of mirrors, robertsnw, you've stimulated a memory of
a tune: "Mirror Man" by Capt. Beefheart, See link below--Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9UKANkpPLI

awesome------truly

geez that was brilliant- marry me

juxtaposition

Their whole lives spent moving from one trash heap to the next collecting sustenance by sifting through all the shit people threw into their word...

not sure why or to lazy to write why that bit by Shem popped into mind when I read your excellent piece. thank you for writing

this is fabulous

Impressive write, excellently captured dreams.

Thanks all. Inspired to write today instead of sleep maybe... thanks

nice adventure- i want to go again