prose

from bed, half way and switching light

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

crunching sounds came from her room

mornings are done

she spent enough time spitting in moving streams sending stems shooting up where she’d hang her hopes, dreaming of valleys where vapors vault off vailed actor’s faces while they falsely direct attention away from tempting situations

we’ll end up there again

this time the lights will be out

she’ll continue to shout her thumbs into a screen to make sure you understand where she’s been, delegated discoveries of insecure ship captains commanding without a crew

navigating neutral waters

waiting for a breeze

i’ll be there, with her, hoping inspiration at the end of the day will guide us after coming half way.

*I’m halfway through a year of “streaming” everyday. I will now switch to streaming before i go to bed, rather than right when i wake up. i should probably change the title of the blog – in time.

from bed, bath, and walking upstairs – traffic was heavy

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

stranded and willing

copper plated evening attire drew me to you and kept us circulating thoughts of wonder and tragedy.

the way we started

moving in circles with motion to sense our lack of control the way we hid in remote locations and occasions of caution with the stream line left to linger on a wandering night through blowing sand and dead elf wishes when cruising through the forest was easier than waking through gilded rooms of gold and silver wishes

deciding it was you who would lose themselves in grafted family trees where it was meant to be

i shouldn’t have been drawn to you

magnetic malice blew through the door halting progress passing through conduits dreamt up by our lost lips remembering the taste of penniless moments dreaming we could be coated again to pass freely to one another’s passions

from bed, shorty

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i lit the fuse and stayed

i wanted to feel the bomb blast, more importantly the time pass as a hiss would grow to bang and leave my final performance something of a mess

grinding behind curtains

you knew i was back there

words that churn from their mouths syntactic seeds i sprinkled in one-on-one rooms

people don’t think about the farmer alone walking rows before their shower starts

bacon and eggs for lazy legs distant from delivery of what keeps them from death

chain links and locks, layers and series of clicks and clocks, clacks and clucks

removed

nuances delivered developed by detailed rain falling on poor richard’s head as he stands alone in mud tides willing himself to walk to the shoals

studios where elvis was made without awkward hips but rhythm and dips doo dippy doo the wizard is suppose to stay in the shoe and don’t rub three times

i have no wishes

the plates delivered not thinking about dishes

i’ll live back here, behind the forest guiding as you zoom in-and-out

a final testament

the sound that stirs your snooze as i give a final refuse and wait…it’s the end of the fuse

i’m behind the curtain

you won’t have to watch

from bed, your yellow bird

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

he couldn’t find his way through the textural maze of self-doubt and criticisms sang to him before bed

there were still bars surrounding him

cries to stay alive barely realized all he could surmise is those legs better bend and rise to help him climb up to the only group big enough to feel like he belonged

homo erectus

homo connectus

they couldn’t exclude him

they’d try

running through fields of cigarette butts and self serving pin pricks, random stray dog licks, and get out of here boot kicks he found the porch

there, his eyes, unable to stay as still as his blessed heart laid fresh to his yellow bird.

a peculiar feathered friend who found a perch nestled where the pole met light, well, half-light as it struggled to illuminate the lives left behind by economic rewind and prepared paychecks to keep in-line the ones who had to make it to the end of the row

a distant connection undefined, interspecies, yellow bird stared straight, their eyes catching

he fumbled a tweet sound from lips left without water, yellow bird cocked her head and riffle fired a ‘good morning’

he replied, in english, he figure she’d have to learn to discern the chopped sounds stumbling as pleasantries were exchanged

‘will you be my…’ barely met oxygen when she swooped close and led him down blocks built for ‘others’, this was new

gliding freely, from corner store to school door they followed nothing and found no floor his heels hardly hitting a ground where lines were found, outlined cousins and sisters bound, street names and histor-ies to protect and divide, relied on boundaries and lies that trap and bind our senses

there’s no mystery

it’s the songs we hear when nights are blistery, do they keep us calm or awake, waiting to take this piece of cake promised to us once a year

she led him back to the porch

not a spark, a roaring torch kept him warm and would help inform the decisions left to lead him through the dim lit days

she’ll come back

from bed, a love poem: beer, fear, and drawing you near

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

my fist crashed through the beginning of a precipitous night bash

a pyramid equation, century club persuasion, fifty-four cans, ten at the base, that’s quick math, and, believe it or not, this isn’t a blood bath

it’s a love poem

lenses were stirred

eyes fixed in one motion, i was next to you

a soft hushed walk home, i was with you

listening to bob and tongue-tangled blue time lapse, i was in you

pants went up

my anticipation and perseveration flew

was hello a goodbye?

breakfast fare late in the night, catching friends entangled in new sight, and our hips were locked

challenged, not judged, and free

we shot darts and moved across country

you stood in light and laid with me in frost bitten-faulty fragile nights

exposed

caressed

left open

undressed

work, accomplish, and build

they came

one at a time

found ourselves in the daily grind

we shed our baby fat

calling forth new life

two became three, became four, and built to more as we raced around the country

i remember when you first painted your face

thirty-two years into life

i thought mine was over

we changed

together

gathering steam to pound back across states to find a place where we would rest

fate

you listened and touched the words falling with frailty from a mouth designed for wishing away time and wondering ‘what if?’ daily

i don’t do that anymore

you’re in store

for fifty-four more

the cans were recycled in stories for the ones we tell time with

every touch of morning you’re the one i rise with

pyramids confirm you’re who i wonder with

wander with

devour life with

and who i’ll cease physical pleasure with

leaving this language of our own for others to decipher

a common logical qualifier

love

from bed, sometimes the stream is rough

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i didn’t know there was a time frame

you left, you crawled down the hall

wishing i wouldn’t have asked you where the case began

when did you start this game of penny tossing angel eating allegations against a symmetric piece of cake that never made its way to candles in front of a flaming child’s face when desires were simple

smile at the reverence of denial

if there isn’t a time when we could strike a pose and dispose of candid moments in the hallway window dressing our camp secrets when it was the fire and you wishing i wasn’t on my side and i could plea to you to banish the fool who left the desert with one eye

closed and dishes undone thanks for being here as the reindeer rushed over after they heard you turned another year old

scold the bold and undo the untold and if it’s my turn then i’ll happily go before there is another match that burns out before i have time to rush through and see you

from a chair, time gets stuck in the breeze

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

a moisture licked breeze kissed by emotion brought the smell of switching situations into the air with cloud rumbles and streaks of light that kept us interested in a changing affair

we sat on creaky back chairs

searching through cob wedded screens

switching focus from distant swirls to shapeless matting

through and within

what was captured in each?

your hand searched through your knotted and unwashed hair, the world knew

i was reluctant to acknowledge

it’s going to rain

passing time for the inevitable

love limply hung above us, waiting to blow away

your sighs matched my lies

neither of us spoke

where would we start?

talking about the weather is what got us here

your chair continues to rock as i hear footsteps follow the howl and slamming door

i sat alone

watching our clothes drench

we’ll leave them out for another day.

from a waiting room couch, watering holes

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i can’t continue to forgive the slight hand motions you use to dismiss this wrecking ball crew of self doubt i shower myself with while starring in a mirror admonishing stray dog emotions, i try to leash and tether these carefully constructed cuts in carved out parts of my past to something more solid than the puff of smoke blown, choking through another night wishing i could sit with cafe lights and angry cigarettes, servers seven curses that they could give a shit i have to wait

i don’t have to

this is where i feel home

grimy tables and sticky seats, i’m no more needed than the powdered parmesan that parks itself on every pizza-place table,

nice to have, less noticed when used

you can do that too

use me

though when you’re done

would you pass me along

i won’t forgive you, i will thank you for the direction

from bed, decide ahead of time

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

saturday night slipped away to the anxiety of one more day when most people pray and i lay in bed dreaming about being chained to a deck far in the ocean wishing they’d let me home

it’s not that i need you to let me

you need to need to think you can “let” me anything as i walked where you have and gave the same change to park and drink a coffee

we haven’t made a difference

open the door

there it is

not the two dimensional you

you hugged me?

i dated your daughter and said the right words culturally financing a mixing glass of terms the way a mocking bird hangs in a tree i touched your grass and filed up his tree in privacy of a home made from an idea

masking the second string of strikes against my swinging wild sights that never could match your wit and condemnation of left over humans wandering for a place in the great race to popular links in our abbreviations and suffix i can’t breathe a slogan for the unforgiven pleas challenged everywhere of please let me be and signal a time when freedom didn’t need a punch in the face reminder that she is the one we serve in every conversation i leave in a blur what is this problem we keep butting against resource fundamental human emergent struggles

can we go back to scattered deaths and rewrite how we caught our breath under a tree

not face down beneath brick building awnings

from bed, i forgot the password

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

over time i lost my confidence

changing my smile was important to me

i got all this for less than fifty bucks

fair and honest

save, but hurry

we’ve learned a little more today

he spoke, but he’s less than forthcoming. surprise

can he answer

we’re frustrated

and this is the typical process

standard procedure

it’ll happen again

what is typical?

stay quiet

don’t slip

loose lips

i agree to cooperate

define my privilege

the understanding is misunderstood it doesn’t count, unless you want advice covering up crimes

we are entitled

focus on procedure, this is not usual

telephone the witness and stick your fist in his mouth, i’m covered, we’ll debate, i’ll die, before you rule

over me

evidence covering won’t fly like the pigs from your ass and out of the sky before i rest upon your inability to avoid us