not in rooms, and from the earth
designed and written by levi wall
the stuff no, the response we call it ‘matter’ you (getoutyourelectronmicroscope) need a preposition to see it = dialogues and a question i have is who do i matter to? as i listen-
i am in rooms, or not are what words amount to, define and deline inbox and outside. modern mice revise the city/country debate, but rants against suburbia betray the meandering words that are as futile as those cubic realities they call homes or not, lots and brain cells filled with bits, bits of colors, smells, sleep/awake with addresses on the fronts. whether or not you turn the light on, and remember makes them realer than words that are as futile as potpourri in screaming nostrils, reminding me, i am in rooms or not.
i have sense (vector) no form. i will wake up to morrow changed as the day ceases at ev ery footstep and born again are we. i am not the same
night, walking down the campus old (or new?) is the grass i glanced at different than last fall’s? or the same, because of roots i am from colorado springs, colorado meaning color red, the dirt that is. still, the night named grass and the moving morning did too. at least the concrete is the same, or seems. [ a layer was washed off in the last storm ] limestone is the old, weighs the buildings down to place, to the tannish dirt, that is, and was; a sooty film paints itself on the porous face of each stone, and all together; makes an imprint cloud. walking, the burden of reality rests on the perceiver, like on the grass, dew. i am not the same, [ beads of sweat on my face like rain, were in an instant ] but my name is and was.
kansas, she is pure blushes green when the sun kisses her cheek and her shoulders bare, and sky so close, sans seams yawning sun, later on washes through the trees and the scent of dusk rinses off the yellows, are now blues nights, blacks, stars tingling points of light (turn off the tv colors) before the sleep
sleep soft, tonight we shared a storm-cloud and nothing more than loudness, both ours and dousing sounds same wet rains, thunder, the lightning and damp remains in the morning, soft light.
don’t you (umbrella!) simplify a storm(s) [television specks of fluorescence; northwest! sputters out five o’clock] as if a name could smooth, smooth puffies and corners into a pill to take, to take you into knowing the fact (the fact! as if all of raindropssssss showers bursts/swells anddrinkings the tinklings on roofs CRACKS and and clappings rumbles, the drums of pressureful booms wafts of fore during and after dirt clods lept in the air, all were under your the same) a roof to keep you dry from it (all) or you’ll insult the sky; so did i (thirst)
thirst y but a quick dip into pool ‘s mirage after all i am
eight-thousand one-hundred twenty-eight days to write realities, and sleep in those given to me. words are the residue, crumble into memories behind my head rising in the morning. (8128) in a cocoon, in the meeting room, i could almost peak out. when voices congruent give illusions of flight and the words drip residual off fabric soft, but stiffening wet, like the sheets waking up on kansas august mornings. over eight-thousand and some-number thoughts i had today about the essence of emergence and what we leave when we’ve said everything, and go away, about the nature of our nature and the ultimate transience of eight-thousand, one-hundred twenty eight days in the thing we’ve called existence as a thing whose nature crumbles every morning when awake.
in the air, hung a speck of dust swirls, as i
‘
m at the mercy of a breath, alive while a slice of light projects my body.
if we are not awakened by light, we are by wilt; knowing even living things loose their living to the wind, feeling cusp of shifting ground, suddenly the planet tilt. you were worried by the car, its noisy power steering broken and leaking spots on the ever-curved ground. i missed fireflies. the signal flares in the grass whispered “God is light” or something else. did they lie? where we’ve been, we don’t need cars, or halogens, driving to see hands-in-pockets billboards offer odd transubstantiation, new wine cupbearers lying without consciousness. awakened leaves tell the truth when they die to tree and live to air; we are obsessed with our own impermanence, clinging to tense. fading fake colors in the suns of our imitations.
the secret under my button-up shirt, nothing above, only below (buried dark in the dirt (shredded papermarkedoutblack) ) prayer to hasten the worms’ transfiguration. a flying man caught their mind to buildsteelandshootstraight keepthelawandbebrave clark kent caught the hearts in the convinc ing way he button ed his grey shirt archetypal guilt turns a man to G-D (maybe), (freud would say). elijah was caught up in glory per se, but other hearts were convinced of the in effectiveness of vermicompost to grow up flying men.
it’s no grave matter that you write fossil poems underneath skin-soft facts and clothey dross giving way to their own kinds of mutability. i want to read your bones, to boil you down to stuff found in historical fiction, check you out of shelf-death, hard cover pressing dirty hands like those before, hard corners leaving triangles on my palms. i want to know you live and dig down through your whens to trace behind skeleton pens, notes and marks, my own kind of mutability as if you weren’t already written, but i am from the earth, so i want to read your bones before i go
is silence destructive art? if you scrape words off signs sticking black triangles to fingers if you cut deep into earth piles next to your mines and death is no cure for life but draws its lines
last night’s forgot to capitalize, (or put on shirts) got service though, didn’t wear badges, reap or sow but were hunter/gatherer gothicly defied gravity in unthought cathedrals of sky beautiful feet forgot ten and found in scribing the ground. conscious now, fast food/fresh plucked, a thought place bo for reality or the other way around, either way. are ‘nt what we are/think/do logos. wary to betroth words, those apparati crystalizing beauty but clumsily attached to self. rooms are ‘nt arms, though: we go to live in houses, maybe move in 3 years. delayed, to soften sharp feet , by choice of shoes + blouses.
i love the where in your hair, the ballad of your barefoot transverse showing score of space and mountains house and road alike in intimacy as if at a single point; it makes distance seem inverse; you are everyone you are ocean, to dip a foot in makes no less vast, but all more close.
“be mine, ethylene will take us there, my dear” (it’s something new) to want to speed things to grocery-store sweetened produce, so succulent and removed, the apples.
roses bought, plastic boxes, clear, stacked in grocery-store fashioncould crush them in my handfragile and malleable (modern). the petals adorned the bed. could have been for anyone, now. love is served in single pieces scattered before touching hand, not picked from thorn bushes, drawing blood, old as a stone wall.
lash not light, no; unloads weight of weights (beauty) onto (fragil ity), piling earth atop glass seeds, potency of love or whatever; nor slender hand weak, that catches eye and pens itself in mind, thin lips steep themselves (unknowingly) too-hot-rose-hip-tea don’t ask me how to tread seas boiling with the heat from coils (a figure or a voice or her hands or love or what ever). just want ground’s smile, greet me in spring with whispered promise, summer, simple poetry (sprouts, petals, or whatever, respectively.)
in a mall walk those cheap mall shops hawked the thought of silver gold and other metals also, pearls sitting under plastic necks and skin, happy wrists and laughing lobes. don’t know macy’s truths from the sea’s, don’t have much money; what means love, to a girl? anyway i don’t know candy-spheres from the real thing but the moon stared down east-west streets casting shadows onto necks and said “i pull tide-covers over sand beds wake the sea to life and” (pock marked face) “invented beaches and the deep down places” which is why i threw my money on the ground to stare instead of buy