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| jared smith |  | 1. With No Tomorrow I have been finding a place of ecstasy that lies outside letters and words, that is buried in Paleolithic drawings chipped away by several thousand years and is still untranslated by universities... the red ochre on sandstone from what is carpeted in the space of stars in time, a man of stick figure intent against unspoken word. And I am here now, whispering in your ear my gratitude at having found you sleeping defenseless to my entry. We will rise stronger. Throw out your twitter keypad and diaries. They will not staunch the blood of our wounds. I am in you growing into a gender you do not understand this is not politically correct in any way down upon the swanky rivers far far away, that's where my harp is calling me ever far. Angel I have loved you since the day before you were dreamed and will find you after my death. The wind outside my desert porch balcony beneath the Big Dipper and Cassiopaeia gusts atoms into the vast space of time and swirls nothing against my flesh that I will remember and I revel that in this instant of impossibility the scent of your flesh fills my nostrils and your eyes are what my mind remembers at night, my darling when accountants fall asleep and all is a final smoothing into ecstasy with no tomorrow. 2. In Each of us In the center of each of us in the belly of our being below the pelvic bone of ancestors is a universe of used furniture and factories lathed in the swirl of sawdust DNA best left forgotten, untouched in the mindless midstream of our lives soaking where blood collides with bone in darkness occluding with light... inherently a string of baubled chintz raised to streetlamps in fog draped cities. 3. Barbed Wire Marking the Perimeters It takes longer than a lifetime for barbed wire to rust away, longer than the hands of the man who ran it up will last. A hundred twenty years for many of these Colorado homes and the cut dust banks that used to line their wagon roads. The elk and bear and moose still live here in these alpine glens. You can track them easily after rain, though few today still do, and you can find strands of their hair and even skin caught on those sharp barbs where they lie twined in loose loops buried under the white dried grasses, the Oregon grapes, quartz veins that lead an argument of insidious intent into the gold dreamed of and fought for by older generations than ours, still holding onto something brown that rubs off on your hands. | |
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