I like the way that the world is a little older.

Slaughtered, wired, weary under the cover of stressful notions and truth. Awkward seconds led to a bummer, happy hours to a happy summer. Yet I miss all the sights, mountains, and the long drives, bars of pleasantries, birds in canopied trees, trenched bridging the light that dwindle, fluctuate between nighttime, daylight, icing sugar on the sight, pressing a howling, scowling mood of weather. My length is angry, my eyes trying to recover from the return to truth, I still remember so many things, yet not as clearly as I yearn, as I had earned by simply presenting myself.

Institution and industries, part of a memory forever, evermore magic moments, caught under my sweater from the spills of milkshakes. I miss shooting around the shouts of laughter, and the screams of inner worries. But they were all hidden, hidden under the letters that I write to save a recognition, a coarse cognition, that realizes color and splits its joy. The time in dunes were fresh out of luck, with an abundance of ducks to keep tracks of lines, staying in a hostel was fine. And oh yes, I miss the excitement, the revelry outside walls, outside the realty sewn into jobs that make hateful unoriginality. Inspiration comes from rocks and wells, paintings of Rockwell, texts of young poets, lit by the stars and the moon, repeated in electric insomnia, cherished in mutual friendship, love, and the affairs cracked under the crux of legalities.

Soul, spirit, clung whole around the intracranial handwriting, firm carves of distinctive canvas, uppers pink and purple, factories, burgers and shops around the empty streets, around the Dutch beats, revolving around oceanic renditions of Israeli prayers. Watching movies, silver screens, trash magic, agony fiend.

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It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

34 thoughts on “I like the way that the world is a little older.”

  1. A most beautiful reminder of the definition of poetry left by the English poet, William Wordsworth in a book he published in 1798 with his equally famous contemporarty, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

    Poetry, Wordsworth says, “is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.”

    I appreciated your telling of your Train-Hued Paradise.

    But I love this piece which seems to be that paradise recollected. Because experiences go so fast but our memory lingers and lingers and I suppose it matters most what you do with those memories. I love this record. But maybe I am wrong, Poet?


    Liked by 1 person

  2. It’s nice to reminisce. I’ve been doing a bit of that myself lately. It’s nice to remind ourselves of things we’ve seen and done that make memories even sweeter when shared. Beautiful flow.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This is my new favourite of your work. Prone to reminiscing myself, I relate to both the wistfulness and freedom of past experiences and the relief and wisdom of being in the present moment. So many great lines in here, β€œicing sugar on the sight” and the ducks in the lines… (so hard to get ducks in a row…), and β€œsoul, spirit, clung whole around the intracranial handwriting.”

    Liked by 1 person

  4. When I read your work, I feel as if I’m reading something from two different realities. As if you’re partly living in another place, trying to remember things you aren’t supposed to have access to and because of that, what you’re looking for can’t really be found, not in it’s entirety, because it’s tangled up with the here and now and the then and there. Does that make sense?


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