If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.
Henry David Thoreau (via ruineshumaines)

I AM WATER


A kaleidoscope,
I bleed color.


I am the red
in my panties
the morning after


a grab
and a twich
and now


you must leave


(Now, now
and with me
unsatisfied?)


….yes, here
we are once
more, a reprise


Did you think
of it again, of
me, as the rain
prodded you
to stay in bed?


The shape of
my heart, a
pulsing bruise


eludes me
like the taste
of your tongue


the way your lips
would meet mine—


if you would
let them


but no
no, instead
we bite hands
lick teeth


Beneath your
languid cool
lies a shiver


(a quietshiver)


like the lifting
of a blanket
in the dawn
of early spring


And you thought
you could hold me


yes yes


I sense it.


It stirs my soul
from madness


the affirmation
of your need
into which I
breathed life


(I am Creator)


I can bite away
my want, keep
it caged behind
my teeth


Prove it, you dare


Trace the color
of need.


my mouth opens
and closes, desicated
in its solitude


you said you would
you said…


(Don’t you understand?)


as if I were
a thing to touch


no no
I will elude
you, eternal


I thought
we were one—


I am the soft
bud of a bloodroot
opening—o—o
pening


slowly


like your lips,
so wavering


resistant to my
fingers in spite
of your need


to part them
with my thumb
and let them


saturate
in the sun…


(Kiss me,
you’ve already sinned
at least once)


I undress, alone.


I let down my
hair, liquid
tendrils for
you to hold


I float,


wanting for flesh
on my diaphragm


I am the unborn
bud, needing only
a drop of water—


a taste of
your tongue,mouth


and more sun


no no


these forms
afford me
no good


I seek another
in which to cloak
this human form,


this pink flesh…


(Can you decipher)
me like this?


Will you find
a body amid
the shape I take
as I crawl


towards you
there


elbow by inch—


or just a shadow
in the sheets?


I myself am
not immune
to the light.


You will try
to find me
there
(my God, you will)


with no eyes
to watch


But
no esoteric mode
no meditation,


(though you
scream your
most guttural
plea through the
blinded dark—arrr
aahhhhh)


nothing
of form


can help you
understand


All the shapes
my body takes


when


I become
water

“I Am Water,” K.E.B.

The Lumineers, “Slow It Down”

Scott Matthews, “Elusive” (Live at AOL Sessions)

The Embrace (Die Umarmung), Egon Schiele, 1917

The Embrace (Die Umarmung), Egon Schiele, 1917

“All Alright,” Fun.

“Joy,” Iron & Wine

ON DRIVING PAST CONCRETE WORLD


pedaling backwards
down the interstate


past markers of
nothing, save home


the Apple Shed
Concrete World
Bill’s Guns


///////// old relics
from which
to seek and
breathe and
seek again


You are a
place-holder
in my mouth


which cuts
my tongue


I elongate.


I reach for
a branch to
grab your leg,
the taut bark
of your calf


a memory
I brush /////////////////////


Were you
the traveler
with no luggage


who gave your
heart, wholly,
in alms?


I cringe in
separation
of touch
from body


a paralytic
with an arm-twitch


A hole in that
canopy of trees


there


we were lost
amid the pines
that never died


a frozen heart,
lackluster in
the bleak of dawn


who will shoot
the apple and
watch it
fall?


We drove, we
moved—you
put your hat
in your lap


as if you needed it


twigs snap
as you whisper
and I?
collapse


I break the earth
with my yell


I scream
in a pitch
that will splinter
your arm


if you can
now feel it


like a prolific
breeze in the
wild of noon


I could have buried
myself there, so
out of time


my ears, my nose
protruding from
the ground


in ignominy


I am myself
no cleaner than
this dirt


I am the spring.
I resist //////////////


this burial,death


your hand against
my cheek is a
rear-view in
the dark


I squint.


No luggage,
no sway of
the trees


your hat gone


I ferry on,
a pedaler.


Driving in circles
to find my way


home


and while
the gentleness
of your fingers,
your palms


fan over me,
white phantom
sheets //////////////////////////


borne against then
against the past,
against you


I lick the air.


the hair peaks
on my thighs
pinpricks, or
rain drops


apricot-peach


my eyes flash
back to your
your chin, to
your teeth


so white


with the promise
of spring


////////// and
so much good
will soon ripen


I will search,
I will amid


Guns
Concrete&
Apples


pines and all
the fallen


be it though


the future, a
vine of grapes
d angling
above our heads

“On Driving Past Concrete World,” K.E.B.
“In the Glare,” K.E.B.

“In the Glare,” K.E.B.

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.
The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini (via fuckyeahliteraryquotes)
“Coffee Shop Flannel,” K.E.B.

“Coffee Shop Flannel,” K.E.B.

A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips; — not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.
Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Fleet Foxes, “White Winter Hymnal”

Claude Monet, Fishing Boats Leaving the Harbor/Le Harve (1874)

Claude Monet, Fishing Boats Leaving the Harbor/Le Harve (1874)