Proof

We are the days that we’ve become. moments dripping gifted from the lounging clocks in rolling melted sightings, given by the gifted madness of a soulmate’s fightings. Our lives wrapped up in phrases coined in books like, “best things ever said”. we are the living words from inside-out each other’s head. No flowers petal ever bloomed or fell without acknowledgement. Your finger pointing skyward to the sun in magic touch; Let there be’s, and songs evoked, without the need of singer, without the need of anything as such. we remember the future, the past we mark with stones. Pay for the day; using each word we heard, in a contract of misinformed loans. the day is shaped by nights retreat. wings upon which we fly, measured by holes, in the shoes, on the souls of our feet. Cities of mud spin out of control, shoulders are rubbed together. mirrors reflect, all we neglect, Our need to seed or siphon the hole, bleed all that protect, feed and vacuum the soul. laughter the prickled pin sent to the nervous skin to bear proof to the living of life. we cut the mustard, cut the crap, cut the cheese, and tease all with the cut of a wounded knife we are the words that drape with cape, sting and hurry, work and worry, cover, uncover, and lie. voices that render, remember, relay, delay, dismember, and with folded fingers, cry. walking, moving, mirrors sharpen every image shown. manufacture methods yet unknown to manufacture other methods down an endless line; making walking moving mirrors testifying we are fine. some shake the globe and some are shaken within the globe. your eyes can see them all, watch them stare and be right there, between the viewer and the view; the only difference is you. You carve the angle of the fine; mark the meteors course, sling your arrows into your very breast and worse; all of it within the realm of love written with a warriors glove; in vain attempt at entertainment. saturated, situated, God of Trojan Horse this Earth given sweetly wrapped; a morsel served with afternoon tea. It isn’t just for you or me, we make that distinction. it is for us or we. when will we come to understand the meaning of the small or grand chase in cartwheels spinning; ear to ear with eyeballs grinning; children of the night or day frothing at mouths with nothing to say; inheriting only vacuums of things that twinkle and pop, and electronically pray. we are indeed burros we are the buttons we wear that say care you are the only one you are the chosen few you fractured and featured phantoms speak to yourself as your life rolls from thundered tongues meeting the mindless who pray from the fields afar; this distance created by seeds blowing windless and free power of choice, the voice in the voice of each star. my neck will not careen, my head holds not the ache history yields. we all walk together each page, fingers of soldiers release; we are inside and out ourselves all the world that pleads lovingly banded in bandaids of genuine, made in america, grease. what use do you have of title or frame when hammock and strain will endure. with closed eyes and narrowed brain insistent rain will down no gates, no bars, no walls, no jars pure drown purest thought but fragments given; dripping to the curb and sewer long before the river to the sea. this is you and me. this is us or we this unforgiven marching in totality. I cannot love more than to give myself to thus inflate and speculate in wide-eyed wonder, curtains flung, naked die asunder, empty grieving for want the everlasting line; beauty of it all the rare earth shine and we are mine. beauty is grief; torment of distance announced. you need not word to know this truth. pain from presupposed separation what you cannot be: madman, poet, king, or God. walking preambles; messages molded of need. it is their baggage. we speak of fate as though it were a handbag; wallet of monies paid for ransom. it isn’t necessary to inspect your life; to visit the mirror to see the lovely or handsome. we will do it for you. you need not work to know this truth. it is flowing in your grain; the blood in every vein. they will speak about the bubbles of his madness how the mercenary midnight capsules poisoned every cell. do tell. we will write about the seagull passing name our magazines Life and Look. oh I could write a book about it all and they would read and read ending their look by upward moving chins in ponderance of something they once read now lost somewhere in someone else’s head oh well we call it claustrophobia or Alzheimer's or cold. he caught cold running in the field with some imaginary net what else might you catch intelligence or age all you need is patience and a cup of life spoonfuls of nostalgia nursing you back to health read your sports page, turn to channel 5 yes. you’re still alive we have given ourselves all permissions. the title page is blank, the check is in the mail. there is no fail. the proof is in the pudding and all we want is more.