flameslost loves we call them flames because we burned we were oxygen we were fuel and when the fuel was gone we were ashes floating rain took us down to earth mushed remains together and when the sun returned the dry remains piled into something that had never been alone as something new
interregnumThere was an earthquake here once. Then twice. And then again. And several more times. And each time ended Life came again building hidden layers on what had not sunk in the sea At last, though maybe not the deep break moved on east the hole was sealed the island left in peace a large high ring not quite complete surrounding the abyss of calm cool water that was all that was left of mountain It was here we began to build a home again to make music and beauty Even if explosions come again, we had our time Lancelot Price 2012 May 13
of the seaof the sea------------I came upon an old tired city on a coast of ocean on a beach of old white sand Caught between the forces and the forms it aged as humans do built and rebuilt in different shapes Events followed one another and at a change the humans fled As life flees a body and the mind dies so the old city stands empty Now it waits
farewellWhen the time has come to set aside the summer to let it go to wave goodbye I shall say"You were the best of all my friends."
firetrapfiretrap---------Once, there were hardwood floors in stores even in the sixties in Orlando Bare of finish, and very real Texture of life Sound of footsteps that show we're here In tiny stores run by Mom and Pop like something from the Old West or the Old East and in modern streamlined outlets run by nameless executives of something soon to be K-MartThe seventies happenedThe weak and cowardlyriding in their motorised walkersarmoured and armed avoiding personal responsibility and personal Deathscream FIRETRAP!make a new rule on the spotignoring fifty years without a flameoverhead sprinkler systems and the Firehouse two blocks away filled with experts at stopping fire Everything must be metal and glass including more and more rules that cage life and freedom And yet despite cages and all of their armour despite all their padded self-driving
anniversaryShadow slides back with sunrise the text is revealed That day That one day of the year when sun penetrates the chamber and lights wisdom from the side to bring it to the seeming of relief The god in bedrock smiles The fools have returned Ten thousand times Lancelot Price 2013 November 26
bluesMy blues have got no rhymeMy blues do not have any rhythmAnd they damn' sure don't have a key of any kindNoneAnd sometimes they get real polysyllabic 'cause that's just the way I roll every once in a whileYepBlues don't have just one colour, just one frequency, Kenneth.There's a whole wide spread of Angstrom units availableright down into the red heat and fire that burnt up who you were back in that one time when you were Somebody but you just aren't anymoreand back up high into that purple with gold and diamonds hidden in green trees in the forest when you were happyAnd by yourselfAnd when you were together on that edge between ecstasy and what you thought was doom of love lost and were wound tight as breaking over a canyon down to the center of the EarthWell, that was the blues, manIt don't get any crazier than thatThat's when you start seriously contemplating suicideWhich is just stupidWhich I never am or ever was unless I was crazy and just not seeing wha
sparsestark hard beauty windblown few things move few things grow pipes skirl their wildness in the air above mountains and water in the moments of a life without fire when I can feel clearly I am born and borne aloft and truly fly Lancelot Price 2012 February 06
escapeescape---------I shall leave the windows dirty and the doors unopened and when I awake from sleep where I make a world of my own I shall read and watch the worlds created by those who've already flown to a place where there exists only one of each thing made Lancelot Price 2012 December 31
I took offMy day off.I stand in sunlightwithout asking.I can watch it being day.The mud is soft and cool at home.I'd bury well without a casket,I’ll be a naked pill for earth.I build a garden box from wood,smash my thumb.Red bellpeppers;too late for lettuce.I had a premonitionI would live like this.No one will remember me.I’ll forget by Tuesday.
waking upand imagine my surprisewhen my insides bloomedinto so many dandelions,and in a single breathi becamehollow.
beauty is a state of mindforgiveness is thescent the violet leaveson the foot that stomped it;I am beautiful in remembrance:I am beautiful in a body two sizes too large, in eyes dilated with questions (eyesyou cannot name; gray like the ocean, blue like the heart, green like the fever dream I cannot wake from) I am the hair of a lion, a wild thing, ignition upon tempted glance. I am the skinyou cannot name, always fleeting; the chameleon you always see but never truly take in. and I know a boy carved of ivory silence, &
PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,to pick up, in a daze, some depth of dictionI never found while you had livedand I can only now pretend that words are capsulesof sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologiesof sound that bore your binaries to their realmslike sacred dreams of Hypnos. Regret’s a simple word.I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenesyou were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, onewhich I would meekly channel through cracks of lightshown through the fist of my own interference,steady indifference. Why this wisdom, now?The cosmic clown who wrote this songdoes not annotate our endings with an epilogue.I do not see the irony in celebratingyour new found space. There is no iconicity,no special shapethat serves the worldas you did serve,to bend and writhe the streetsinto a wellspring, a circuitr
JackIn my 57th year there was Jackgrey curls, leggy and long,scratchy-chinnedand warm as Augustfrom head to thigh."You're the best thingand the worst thingthat ever happened to me,"he whispered into the nightgiving love in parentheses,and I fit just under his arm."We should have metwhen we were young,"he said, my hands tracingthe broad spring of his chest."This is going to be hard."Air dry as cotton.Heart, too heavy to fly.
urban oceanThe wet roads are my urban ocean.Some men see God in the break of foam--I see God in the freeway.I see God in the spray off the backs of eighteen-wheelers hauling consumer garbage to southern Maineas I walk along the side with my boots soaked from puddles.The sea reflects the sky and Route 2 reflects the skyand the waves go shush, shush, and the cars go shush, shushand the clouds roll over,the clouds roll over.The wet roads are my urban ocean.
Summers Lost god died today. or maybe it was tomorrow. i can't remember. "ask anything."static skies;grizzled bluesketching downto sewer lines:like a wishon a dead star.the feeling of gritted teethand fingers crosseduntil they break.shame tastedlike a scalpeland a brick wallagainst my throat.and i waschewing concretewhen i said,"it's okay."swallowing cinder blocks;stuffing steel under skin.sugar-sweeton my cheek,like book pages:"where have you been?"
lipstick-stained collarsthe one-of-a-kindlook you shoothas been duplicatedfar too manytimes to count.your eyes mustbe made of glass,the way theywander so freelyin your sockets.it's unimaginableto think that thosecallouses on your palmsare the result of work,instead of your infidelity.the sickeningscent of yourscandalous second-lifehas stainedour love.it's ridiculousto expect honestyfrom a snake,or forgivenessfrom a shrew.
hyperdontiasometimes it feels as ifI have too many milk teeth,too many parts of me that belongto a time when I climbed trees to touch the skyand I swam in sunflowersand fireflies -to a time I have long sincepainted in sepia tones,long since pushedto the back of my mindwith hands so tiredof being filled with splinters- too many seedsand not enough light.there are too many parts of methat I have placed underneath pillows,that I have kept behind closed lashes,that I have slept upon, waitingfor the morning to arrive and themto be g o n e ,replaced with coins that I could placeunderneath the tongues of the dreamsthat I could not ferry to myfrail realities.but in the morning, they return -one by one into my mouth,daring me to speak them,daring me to sing,daring me to find someone who will listen. listen.it feels as ifI have too many stories,too many secrets,too many sins and not enough spacefor the words to fly out of my mouthand into the world -I have
stop me if you've heard this one beforei.there is a man on the corner of my streetwho gave me a bottle of bleachand told me if i drank it, i'd finally feel clean.but i gave it back to him, and went home to take a shower.because i am almost happy,and i do not want to mess that up bychugging bleach or fingering knives or thinking too muchabout that man who turned my insides coldfrom inside of his car.because this has to be happy.this has to be what happy feels like.it feels like god gave me a vodka bottlefilled with nature and people and oceans and deserts and seas,cause see, it feels like i'm drunk on life.ii.i have this nervous habit of scratching holes in my skinand my mother says it's becausei'm trying to find something beautiful inside me.she said i need a psychiatrist.my friend asked me if i needed itching crème.iii.i keep laughing about stuff that's probably not funny.iv.i don't want it to rain anymore.used to, i liked the rain,because if i squinted, all the lines would be blurred.now, i
you need to have a plan...so here's toconventional wisdom.1. relocateto some forgotten shore.2. fall desperately in love with i. the ocean ii. the sky iii. the honey sunrise and iv. the steelgray winter dawn.3. sinksoul-deep into the water andbreathe.4a. search out the requisite words i. from behind white and blue curtains ii. and underneath clam shells iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and4b. pluck them from the ceaselessscrawls of sunlightagainst the slopes of waves.5. make time for i. poetry ii. and other selfish pursuits.
for she is a sinnerAngels eat her alive,the way she deserves:molting downy feathersin a hermetic esophagus—like her lungs,pooled with wordsuntouchedin stillness.She is choked by halos,and expecting expansionsspanning clouds and Nilesof rosemary tears;( yet no ocean cried,and no tsunami felt,will rid the torture justifiedin each holy touch uponsoiled cheeks: wet Liar’s runoff.It falls so easily down her throat,to drown more words. )and she almost warns themto stay away: She is filth.but they lovingly caressand they carefully sinktheir glittering pearls into hercalling husk…just the way she deserves.
Urban Evisceration there is a thundering of one hundred buffalos-the metro awakens and stampedes across the pre-cast terrains of my intestineswelders busy mending on one end cutting on the other surgeon handed precision and each moment costing another man's life whether or not he may set food on his table
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,as lithe as your impermanence.and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,spoonholed piles of mexican brickwhere nothing ever touches down,nothing here alive receivesthe plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,the ugly wind that meets the mudline.[metaphors]1. a mottled fence2. and how these storms hold faceless teeththat slat their eyes through butter-woodthen purge their guts on wintered florets4. some freshly headless nativities,their polyethylene skirts upturnedfrom violent sacks5. and knowing i’m a soulessspeck i lick at what is manifest beneath your hair each poison taba colouracidfire or lake a brothel and religious studiesi know, i know you never meanto murderor completemebut do not say “live for yourself”.i’ve come online to see the godthat came before me.we are so poorly marriedlike bookend spines of Plath and Hughesup on the shelfare somehowsynon
RestlessI’ve been living in the same breathy dreamfor too many days now; I’m bed-ridden andstale and I reek of those moments that comefull throttle like a car crash on a winter night this is evolution where weak hearts are afraid of the shadows and where everything changes, an apologetic wind births no remorse; he will move on—anchored ship set sail, I am the sunken wreckage that never learned how to swim. he will move on, Darwin says I never had a chanceI wish I were the textbook sadness,symptom and solution and endurancebut I’ve spent too long sleeping on thethoughts of shooting stars and gravityand reasons, scientific calculations withthrice-checked proofs for the skepticsthat don’t believe in the sleight of hand magicreality wants to implyno,I am not the insomniac writer withbetter things to do than sleep; I amthe heavy bones afraid of whatlies in the darkness beneaththe skeletons of childhood monstersand p
The Daily Sentence ProjectShe shifts her thighs to the same angleswhere tectonic plates exchange glances.The infant in her arms coos in haiku,the phone crouching on her shoulderbarking in blank verse and bank terms;where has the affection been displaced?Perhaps the both of them are three full-time jobs past romance and two casesof chickenpox past the seven-year-itchto be able to tell that dishwater softensand oatmeal baths becalm their hands.The kitchen tile is a haphazardous havenfor cloven shoes. She prefers slip-ons.
fast-forward through the goodbyesthis is the beginning of the end“i know you,” he says.and he looks defeated, he looks sad, he looks likehe's a boy who may one day realize how muchhe cares for you, so you cut him off and say,“minus all the secrets i don’t tell anyone.”“well, yeah, minus those.”“then you don’t know me at all.”and then you tell him,i love you. but you don’t use those wordsbecause those are taboo. are jinxed.are knock on wood three times fast.instead you press him in a hug and say,i’m sorry, knowing he won’t understandthat this is the first time you ever cared for somethingenough to try and fix it after you hurt it.you hope he doesn’t ever realize what you’re sayingand his response will always be ‘what for?’ becauseif he figures out he loves you nothing changes.he’s just going to be in love with a corpse, a memory,a pair of trigger happy hands,
scar-crossed(my fingers are colder than the solemn blueburied in her eyes. so much dead beauty,like an ocean without waves).she is fading and i cling to her,and in this tiny little momentbetween breathswe barely even exist.
seekerI wander much through such old country,a ghost who's thinking of other ghosts,missing them and their effects,an exile from the present, and from past.