29 December 2008

lockhaven yellow

today i got slung around in one of these. nothing in front of me but a couple rudder pedals and a stick. to my right, horizontally hinged fuselage panels gave way to a sky bumbling past at 55 knots. insects fly faster. highest altitude? 3200 ft. number of attempted helical dives? 3. max number of rotations per dive? 2 3/4, slightly more than the number of G's pulled. for a brief second, I weighed close to 250 pounds, and it felt exhilarating.

what i love about flying is the plunge into an endless geographical expanse, one that levels mountains and amplifies the sky to dimensions our retinas fail to comprehend. limitless. scurrying among the clouds, swallowed by a cerulescent ceiling, and tasting, for a few moments, our earth's dulcet coating. a pterotic libido.

23 December 2008


There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons...
When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath

(emily dickinson)

There is, in the wane of the day, some persistent thought opposing the fade of light. Some color, neither blue nor black vying for a vagrant space to fill. The day drone ceases. The night winds yet are still. The strings to an old journal lie limp, as they were left in hand's neglect - a diminutive folio whose thinly pressed leaves carry the paltry scribble of trivialities past. Yet the pages heave with some polysyllabic language, and their breathing is not muffled by the resonating plunge into gelid anonymity. These pages, though pallid, seep with the blue stains of some life, and are bound by their cerulean tattoos to attest as witnesses to its pulse.

06 December 2008


(click for song)

the pallid blink of an eye is enough to partition the world into myriad kaleidoscopic phrases

a long sleep dissolves the drone of method and synthetic rhythm

some mornings, the sky wakes a hundredfold and ribbons the earth in volcanic tinged strata, like silken marsh water.

broad, stained skies and banded horizons wandering over the top our aboreal mantle amount enough height to convince me that this ceiling carries some naturally cogent impetus.

01 December 2008

the slidder dalles.

when will we be able to tell all we know freely, openly?
some winds never die. the rustle of skeletal grasses
quivering in their dormancy reveals that winter, too,
is a vivid season. yet some don't see it so. to glaze
over the top in a fretful haste is to misname
the world. and yourself. there are lives pressed
into the grain of patience that deep eyes and
inaudible breaths draw out. a sharp eye withers not.
and echoes resound in every crack of silence.
Template developed by Confluent Forms LLC; more resources at BlogXpertise