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Ya Runnin' and Ya Runnin'
But You Can't Run Away from Yourself
Created on 2008-12-22 14:19:37 (#17575812), last updated 2009-11-29
107 comments received, 277 comments posted
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63 Journal Entries, 2 Tags, 0 Memories, 10+ ScrapBook Files, 0 Virtual Gifts, 5 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | alc123 |
|---|---|
| Birthdate: | 02-12 |
| Location: | Michigan, United States |
BioThis is the heat that seeks the flaw in everything
and loves the flaw.
Nothing is heavier than its spirit,
nothing more landlocked than the body within it.
Its daylilies grow overnight, our lawns
bare, then falsely gay, then bare again. Imagine
your mind wandering without its logic,
your body the sides of a riverbed giving in…
In it, no world can survive
having more than its neighbors;
in it, the pressure to become forever less is the pressure
to take forevermore
to get there. Oh
let it touch you…
The porch is sharply lit-little box of the body-
and the hammock swings out easily over its edge.
Beyond, the hot ferns bed, and fireflies gauze
the fat tobacco slums,
the crickers boring holes into the heat the crickets fill.
Rock out into that dark and back to where
the blind moths circle, circle,
back and forth from the bone-white house to the creepers unbraiding.
Nothing will catch you.
Nothing will let you go.
We call it blossoming-
the spirit breaks from you and you remain.
-Tennessee June by Jorie Graham
and loves the flaw.
Nothing is heavier than its spirit,
nothing more landlocked than the body within it.
Its daylilies grow overnight, our lawns
bare, then falsely gay, then bare again. Imagine
your mind wandering without its logic,
your body the sides of a riverbed giving in…
In it, no world can survive
having more than its neighbors;
in it, the pressure to become forever less is the pressure
to take forevermore
to get there. Oh
let it touch you…
The porch is sharply lit-little box of the body-
and the hammock swings out easily over its edge.
Beyond, the hot ferns bed, and fireflies gauze
the fat tobacco slums,
the crickers boring holes into the heat the crickets fill.
Rock out into that dark and back to where
the blind moths circle, circle,
back and forth from the bone-white house to the creepers unbraiding.
Nothing will catch you.
Nothing will let you go.
We call it blossoming-
the spirit breaks from you and you remain.
-Tennessee June by Jorie Graham
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