forgetlings:

My ancestry is the sun
Maintenant je suis maudit
Now I am an outcast

Perfect your beauty
Perfect your sensitive life
Your soul arriving quiet and searching
Wandering, embracing –

Here I add a word –
Unforgotten

We are underfed
But there is heavy sweetness
In a warm dark bruise

~   

"Going to Georgia"

Mountain Goats

some cast hands for my “Sirens” project

~   John Updike (via theunquotables)

Passing window after window bleeding tungsten

When the night is thick I drive

deeper in the tree lines trailing an

orange like parking lots

Humming

We chase our own light and exhale

tirelessly in our wake

asphalt still picking my knees from its

Skin

I keep walking trying to find new memories before

this place forgets them

I picked its mind and found under mud, inside trees bowing lower to

Houses calling closer

Watching the sunset on the field until the trucks came in

What they left unburied gets unearthed

Poured full with concrete

Stepping on urchins in my dreams

Picking shards from the soles

of my feet

In memory the fall sky forms

Deeper than anything I’ve seen lately

Weaving different smoke into my clothes

And a waning moon whose face

I hope to still recognize in a crowd

The slip into anaphora

when I say ‘house’ instead of ‘homeland’

~   

The Voice and the Peak

Tennyson

(a dream from 12/21/13)

A mountain’s ridge and peak close,

the winds endless throw snow into the air like

the smoke from a candle blown out

you store trees up there, tied up. 

The ocean, i see it between treetops, suddenly, it almost

seems like a wave stopping just short of flooding your home.

it stands deep and tall remembering Egypt

you defy distance and dive in-

In colors together, you say something of me.

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likeafieldmouse:

Josh Tonsfeldt
12.13.13 /13:31/ 415

As the mountains should be, blue, settled by treetops.

Standing distance and you’ll never

know me, unfolding into patterns of life so neatly hidden and

large. I see you every year, in passing.

I stare into your eyes, during morning-in nights, never close.

If I call your name, the fog will not stir, the sky

descending into your profiles after sunrise

will not alter its course to any other heartbeat.

How many cold mornings, lace curtained moments do you remember, I-

have slept beside you, spoken often as a way of breathing inside you,

as echoes of lost and a prodigal wind moving close to the ground

between the trees. i waited in parking lots as if repeated far-offs never shivered or turned their head. 

hopeful. 

 You are my distances  

                                and nearness, my remind-me-of and never-yets

The unbroken frost blooming in my throat 

~   Franz Kafka  (via kafkaesque-world)
~   Pablo Neruda
Canvas  by  andbamnan