it ends up being about the questions that you want to have answered for you.
Why... why do I do this?
Why sometimes do I
not
this?
do
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in days flown by, the author as a young father finds himself always staring at the door to his own canon, trying desperately to remember the combination to the lock that he has used to keep it from opening up.... |
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I think it's about questions. About validity. About how sometimes the world can seem so invisible, and all that exists between your gravities and your ionoshpheres is a tiny hand in front of half-opened silvery blue eyes, |
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and a coffee-skinned lover with a knowing touch. |
Nothing finds it's way in, out, or above.
Turbulence f r e e
He found the key to growing old at 5. He found the key to acting old somewhere.. later.
He found things that seemed good enough to consider them to be what he was looking for all along, and he decided in his own inimitable way to leave it at that.
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and |
it |
was |
good |
Turbulence f r e e
 |
by
the water I called myself the fisherman. |
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and as the fisherman, I knew what to say. |
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By the still surfaces of the lake, I called myself the swordsman, and suddenly with blade in grasp, I found there were men to wage, tears to avenge. |
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and with honor, I watered the soil with the crimsons of the unrighteous. |
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for after all, I was the swordsman |
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Turbulence f r e e
to be with was to ride the
age, to call the bluff --
Appoint the laughter and insectsting the hearts
of the quiet girls who thought that you were
something different
than what you actually were....
the fisherman
the swordsman
the flyer
>> the five ({year} old) man <<
they stay with you as dust in your hair, showing age and yet maturity. Scars to be unearthed when the time comes for stories, the need happens by for a pit in your throat. Memories are the whorls in the wood furniture, the sweetspots that make our lives a better choice on the shelves than the one next to us. Yet they encapsulate, medicate, and supplicate.
I was not a fisherman, a swordsman, or a candlestick maker. Carpenter and Walrus walk by, oysters sure to follow. I find it curious, and open my heart to scream life into the chaos, and blow form into the glass of ideas...
Turbulence f r e e
Turbulence f r e e... hiccup.
Turbulence ... hiccup.
"your wonderful interruptions were not unknown to me, but I should have expected them to be this grandiose," she hissed.
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Parlor tanned and quiet to the touch, Mary was the one you found lying in the chalk outlines. She was a woman who spoke with a man's impertinence, yet she lived life always needing her knife and fork to be clean. Picture her in ornate clothes, but fall in love when she trusts enough to appear in jeans and a thin, lazily buttoned shirt. Sometime later on you will ache for that couture, and wonder why even in her housecoat she seems so eager to discuss the pageantry with others wishing to know what she is. |
"Decide what you want, decide upon a font."
It's my turn to talk, dear. You'll get your chance.
With a lifted eyebrow she turns her head, Famke Jannsen as Mrs. Price (flat character - nice curves),
"I wish I had been more surprised when you took that scalpel to Peter Gallagher, my dear."
"References will only confuse them," she chuckled.
but they were there, you think out loud to yourself.
Don't
stop. You were doing so well.
It's
been a while.
That's
no secret,
no crime.
just let go.
Talk to him.
Tell him how much you love him.
Shiverkiss
was a million years ago, and I have fallen in and out of my
own misinterpreted Oregons a hundred times since then.
I don't want to redefine myself -- but I am pretty sure
that's what I am supposed to do. It's time for a new album.
NOW, not in September. It's time for the Winter Day to end,
time for the Man to not want Cats to Dream. It's time for
the Horses to Gossip, for the Men to live in Caves, it is
time for Bad Moments to be known.
it's time for life.